


Long Journey to Now

by raven_aorla



Series: Our Agency [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Backstory, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, PTSD, Polyamory, Psych Ward, Tourette's Syndrome, Why do these people have multiple names to tag with, standalone fic, toxic masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: Oceans rise, empires fall, and Old Fritz has given up his bloodstained crown in order  to start fixing his head. He hopes Doctor Angelica Schuyler will help.[Can be read on its own.]





	1. Angelica and Hans

**Author's Note:**

> For RandomFandom5, for asking a totally innocent question that spawned whatever this is.

_"Confidential?"_

_"Except under the circumstances detailed in the paperwork you signed: plans to hurt self or others, recent or ongoing abuse of a minor."_

_Friedrich/Frederick "Fritz" Wilhelm/William II (though his current documents are a different story) considers Dr. Angelica Schuyler for a moment. Her credentials are stellar, and Friedrich and Voltaire both spoke highly of her. Mr. 15 discreetly checked her background, and one of his people has checked for bugs. Francesco and Mina have begged him to get his head sorted out._

_"So if some of the things I tell you were, for example, criminal, but some time ago?" It's possible that she has already heard some of this from Friedrich, but Fritz wants to be sure._

_"Only if the U.S. government were to subpeona me."_

_Fritz - he's essentially retired now, and he likes the humility of everyone calling him Fritz - hugs the manatee-shaped doll to his chest. He has been informed that it will not judge him. "I may have to begin with my childhood, cliche though that is."_

**********

He’s born the heir to what is not quite a criminal empire, but is certainly a kingdom, its underground roots and tendrils reaching throughout continental Europe.

His English teacher lets him read Sherlock Holmes stories for homework when he is ten, and he decides his father is like if Moriarty weren't so clever, though he has the sense to only tell his sister. Wilhelmine (Mina when it's just the two of them) laughs. She laughs more easily than her brother, because one of the few things their father balks at is teaching a girl to do what it takes to run a criminal almost-empire.

Mina gets to go to a carefully vetted Swiss boarding school, subtly watched over. Mina isn't entirely instructed by tutors, who run the gamut from English to French to History to Science to Mafioso Etiquette to Weapons to White Collar Crime to Not-White-Collar Crime to International Law to Physical Fitness. The normal subjects tend to be with female teachers, and those ones think he's just another rich kid. He likes those teachers, and some of the more unusual ones are decent mentors too, but it's not enough. Mina gets to study art. Literature. Drama. Music.

Father doesn't believe in hitting girls, either.

If she didn't write him a letter every day while they were apart, if she didn't wrangle him chances to go to galleries and symphonies with her while she was home, if she didn't hold him when he talked about things he would never say to anyone else - he would hate her. Instead, for a long time, she's the only person he loves.

***

Then -

He's seventeen when his bodyguard takes a bullet for him. His new one shows up when he's only just finished getting dressed after washing the spatter off.

"Don't salute, don't call me sir, tell me what to call you." He offers a hand to shake, proud of how steady it is.

The unusually young (and handsome, whispers a frightening part of himself) bodyguard shakes his hand firmly, not deferential, not dominant, but warm and there. "My name is Hans Katte, but call me Hans."

And he realizes three fundamental things at the exact same time:

1\. He's a boy in a life in which his only job is to take someone else's horse by the reins one day.

2\. Hans is here because he's his father's son. He'd have to be naive to put that aside.

3\. Hans' hand is lingering.

 

***

Hans knows how to play the flute. He's very coy about why. But he's happy to secretly teach his charge. Stealthy flute practice. The inevitable innuendos occurs. They laugh.

One day the inevitable innuendo occurs, and Hans doesn't laugh. "Could teach you that too," he says.

He's a quick learner.

***

Between the two of them, they carefully forge, steal, borrow, or barter everything they need to start a new life in England. His father's influence has never managed to penetrate the United Kingdom. They will send Mina a coded message telling her he's fine, and find a way for her to join them or just visit, whichever. He's eighteen. He will be anything he wants to be.

"Go by 'Frederick'," Hans suggests. "It's easier for native English speakers than 'Friedrich'."

Frederick kisses him. In a new country, he can be a new man.

They make it to Berlin, to the airport, the terminal. No more.

***

"If it wouldn't be so inconvenient to start over from scratch, I'd consider having you executed as well. I don't take desertion lightly." His father steeples his fingers. "These are your choices: silently and attentively watch him receive a single bullet to the head, or not watch him get cut into small pieces over a period of days."

Frederick runs the tip of his tongue over his split bottom lip. He'd put up enough of a fight to send three of their elite to the hospital. "I hate you more than I have ever hated anything in my entire life."

The vicious slap is expected. The reply is not. "Good. You're still something of a man. Now choose."

(Hans is blindfolded when it happens, but he says quietly, in English, "My love, I know greatness lies in you." Frederick only gets a light beating for fainting right before the actual moment.)

***

  
He doesn't kill his father. He thinks about it, but he's not ready to turn this little kingdom into an empire yet. He throws himself into training and takes over some of the simpler operations with an enthusiasm that impresses everyone. Except Mina, who worries. 

(He has Mina, and he has the flute, and for now that must do.)

His father offers to lengthen Frederick's leash a bit if he marries a woman. He searches through the reasonably nice relatives of people who are in a bit of trouble with his father. Elisabeth, an Austrian, newly graduated public relations manager, agrees to be his beard in exchange for certain of her relative’s debts being forgiven, financial or otherwise. Also a big house and a generous allowance.

“Fine. Don’t get caught sleeping with other people - I don’t care personally, but we have to keep up a slight veneer of appearances - and don’t touch me unless you absolutely must.”

As time goes own, Elisabeth is less of a beard and more of a goatee, or even a very faint stubble. She also turns out to be really good at making nice with people over dinner parties and so on. Frederick puts her on the payroll and gets seen holding her hand from time to time.

***

Then his father does die, and the moment the funeral ends he buys season tickets to a theater and sees every. Single. Play. Mina goes to some of them with him. She’s become a successful composer and conductor, and her career and loves take her away from him much of the time, and that’s good, really. All for the best. They write long letters and call and meet up for dinners and birthdays, and her life is clean and sweet.

He never talks to her about work. Deniability. On the other hand, she’s still the only one he’ll really open up to about personal stuff. Whispers about existential fears with occasional, furtive lovers don’t count.

***

Frederick diversifies his (his!) operations, many of them legitimate now, many of them even noble. Feeding people. Preserving the environment. Cleaning up land and water, making it usable. He also channels a fair amount of money into the arts, but that’s for its own sake, and he’s happy to make his displeasure known to anyone who questions the “frivolity”.

Other things are illegal but not heinous. The various Chinese gangs dominate the niche on counterfeit goods, but they could always use a little help with distribution, for example. And it’s not particularly sad when a billionaire falls for a pyramid scheme. Messing with markets a little bit doesn’t kill anyone.

Yes, killing anyone does kill someone, but he makes sure it stays...genteel. He upholds his promises. He offers ways to cooperate rather than simply stomping his enemies to dust immediately. All extra-legal groups worth conquering are fair game, but he goes for the ones that do things like human trafficking first. They make him feel ill.

He also strictly forbids deliberately killing loved ones in front of each other, or killing or harming an uninvolved person as leverage. If people who care about each other need to be killed at the same time, have it happen all at once in a confusing melee or in different rooms or something. Ill would not be a strong enough word for making someone watch.

Speaking of which, he’s not as well as he’d like to be. He’s brave in daylight. He would never command someone to do something he’s not prepared to do himself, and in fact he’s endeared himself to his employees by going right into the field with him when time permits. It’s different at night, and in his head. He doesn’t sleep much, and not soundly. He often feels overwhelmed, but never shows it. Everything feels off. Mina says he’s in dire need of an assistant.

 

***

The potential right-hand-man is said to be difficult to work with at times, but ingenuitive and fluent in multiple languages. Young, scrappy, hungry. A lot of brains but no polish. He has some issues with insubordination and anger. His past is murky, his ways eccentric, and he simultaneously yearns for approval and actively resents the craving.

Friedrich “Frederick” William II decides that Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben is just what he needs. Though they might have to sort out the name similarity if they get to a first-name basis. He hears that some of his people have started calling him Fritz in third person, and perhaps that will do.

“You seem surprised,” he says.

Von Steuben drums the fingers of his left hand on his thigh. “Most employers who are trying to - OBLIQUE - sorry, I really can’t control that unless I’m, I’m, what I mean to say is people find me irritating, even without the syndrome.”

“I’ve been told that your tics disappear when you’re focused on the Job,” Frederick says, Job with a capital J because they both know he means this specific sort of work. Being a cashier at a shop wouldn’t have the same absorbing effect.

“Why else did you think I joined, sir?”

***

They’re fucking within two weeks. There’s probably something unethical about having relations with his aide, with whom he is developing a friendship, but there’s enough going on right now everywhere - and Hans in his dreams, always - that he doesn’t care.

Frederick thinks von Steuben might have a little crush on him. He does look rather endearing in his current position lying in front of the fireplace and cuddling all three of Frederick’s current Italian greyhounds. Wearing nothing but a throw blanket. It’s their compromise for the times when Frederick doesn’t want to be touched after sex, but still wants to do pillow talk, while von Steuben wants to have some sort of affectionate skin contact.

Right now, Frederick doesn’t feel anything except for post-orgasm glow, mild drowsiness, and a sort of benevolent warmth towards his aide. It’s nice, but it’s the most he’s ever felt in times like these for many years now, and he wishes -

“Hey Fritz?” After the second time, they decided von Steuben could call him that in private. “Mr. William” or “sir” otherwise.

“Yes?”

“I have an idea about - FLANK - what we could potentially do about the Italian Mafia getting too big for their britches lately.”

“Oh?”

“Hear me out. This sounds very strange. What if we tried doing a favor for the Americans?”

“You always want to do favors for the Americans.”

“FLANK - America interests me, and I think you should look beyond Europe. You’ve made us so much greater than we used to be.”

Frederick changes his mind. He pats the mattress next to him. “Shoo the dogs out and come here.”

The young man obeys. “May I?” he asks, waiting for a nod before he nestles in close.

“Call me, the, um, the, you know.” He’s still embarrassed to ask, but he likes how it sounds.

Von Steuben kisses the base of his throat. “Frederick the Great. My king.”


	2. Friedrich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-explicit offstage violence.
> 
> I hope it is clear that I am ignoring the real people's respective ages, and just mushing broadly contemporary-ish historical figures together in what makes for enjoyable writing.

_“How’s your stay here going?”_

_“Everyone is very agreeable, Angelica, unless you count when Robbie starts wailing in incomprehensible Scottishness about how much he wants a drink. I have no complaints about the staff.”_

_“What would you like to focus on today?”_

_“I suppose we’ve covered how I became established. This was the first, hm, perhaps you could call it the first chink in the armor...”_  

***

Fritz’s realm grows, and he has to delegate more and more. Even trickier, there are organizations of such strength and scope that it would be foolhardy to try for anything more than cooperation, or at least coexistence. And among great upheaval, no less.

A young Chinese woman called Ching Shih expands into the metaphorical piracy market of intellectual property theft, and more impressively seizes control over much of the literal piracy of the South China Sea. Interesting intel: traitors in her organization are maimed and then fed to the legal system (which is in awe of her) as a peace offering. Rapists, on the other hand, are tied to heavy objects and tossed into the ocean. She’s also reluctant to have women killed, though reluctant does not mean unwilling.

 _Les Numéros Français,_ or The French Numbers, somehow stagger on despite being 95% frills and melodrama. The leaders insist on going by numbers instead of names, and Fritz is not entirely sure if they are biologically related, and if so, how. Fritz quite likes France and its culture and language, but he’s convinced The Numbers are on the decline.

(Monsieur 14’s “brother” - perhaps actual brother - a crooked but genial politician known as Philippe d’Orleans, is all right. He likes lacy dresses, shiny things, seemingly competing with his diplomat wife Henrietta for who can hate the other’s boyfriends more, being very good at fixing things with both the French military and government, and interior design. He’s fun to drink with, and Fritz does several times when he’s in Paris on business.)

Meiji and his faction overthrow the Tokugawa clan in the greatest upset the Yakuza has seen in decades. They say he’s much more efficient. They say he never smiles. They say you can be executed for looking at him the wrong way or not bowing low enough. They say he doesn’t just make those who have made a mistake lop off the first joints of their own pinkies, that he makes them bite them off. They say he’s commissioning technology like Japan and the world have never seen. They say this technology might include a death ray. They say he’s obsessed with the Ultraman TV show. Fritz is skeptical of most of these. He doesn’t want to cross him, though.  

New Mafiya leader “Russian Cathy” sends her people all over Eastern Europe and across the Bering Strait to tap into Alaskan resources. Her investments in medical fields intrigue Fritz. She’s impossible to ignore. She’s very difficult to get an audience with. Which brings him back to Friedrich von Steuben.

 

***

“Russian Cathy’s lover and lacky - INOCULATE - Potemkin is in Bern for the next few days, sir,” Friedrich informs him as they’re on their way to have a chat with a member of the Hanover gang who had been causing them trouble. “No idea why, but he is.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Fritz leafs through the bio and summary as they walk. He’s read it before, but it’s just to refresh his memory. He hasn’t done an interrogation for a while, but it’s very important to remind his men and women (there are more and more women now, mostly in the legitimate or white-collar operations, but not all) that he will never order them to do something he considers beneath himself. He is their servant as much as their leader.

“I didn’t want to tell you unless I got him to agree to a meeting, sir. Next best thing to the woman herself.”

Fritz chances a smile at his assistant. “Well done. Give me the details later, but how?” The Russians were a frustrating lot when they weren’t being alarming.

“I learned he loves making model villages, sir. I had a tiny, functional clock tower sent to him. Thought it’d be worth the expense to rush the order. Hard to beat Swiss craftsmanship. With your compliments and polite yet enthusiastic offer, of course.” Friedrich poked the wall over and over as they went.

“I’ll kiss you later.” Someone might come along the corridor.

They aren’t so much Good Cop and Bad Cop as Verbal Cop and Physical Cop. Friedrich excels at convincing people to do as he says by a combination of frequently-obscene shouting and quieter, calmer explanations of why he must be obeyed. His verbal tics don’t trouble him while he’s in the moment.

When Fritz has nightmares, he feels better hitting someone the next day. Not just hitting, sometimes. He has a lot of nightmares. Mina says it’s a vicious cycle, that he’s feeding the fire that scorches him behind his eyelids. She’s the only person who can get away with saying something like that.

 

***

There will be the requisite number of snipers and so on for the meeting with Potemkin, but Fritz doesn’t need to deal with all that hands-on. Friedrich books them connecting rooms at one of the hotels in their pocket. Fritz tries to cultivate a “friendly” hotel in every city they are likely to visit multiple times.

He and Friedrich eat together at a nearby restaurant, and Friedrich makes sure he’s safe in the hotel before going off on his own. That evening Fritz manages to get enough paperwork and dull reading done that he feels justified in sinking into a hot bath with a novel. After the bath, he writes Mina a vague but affectionate letter in the innocuous-seeming code they use.

He’s thinking about going to sleep when Friedrich knocks on their connecting door, their special knock. Fritz rises to unlock it. “Your hair’s a mess.”

Friedrich turns on the white noise machine before responding. “I’m sorry if the boy was loud from time to time. He seemed frightened of being gagged, even though he claimed to be fine with it, and if it’s not enthusiastic consent I don’t count it. Hmmmm.” Friedrich calls all of them “boys”, but Fritz checked as soon as Friedrich began pursuing this hobby and verified that the are in fact all 18-23 years old.

“It was acceptable. Thick walls here.” It was one of the reasons why they chose this place for ongoing patronage. “Do you have any suspicious items we need to pack carefully?”

“There’s an excellent agency nearby that provides rope and all sorts of other things for an extra fee once they’ve matched you up with someone. We own it, you - hmmmmm - know. Well, you do. I gave a quick look round while I was at it, including a glance at their finances and policies. Clean and not cruel. Good profits.”

This is one of the problems with how big his kingdom has become. Fritz has no memory of acquiring, and likely modifying, some kind of semi-ethical, though illegal, prostitution network in Bern, of all places. “We. I steer the ship, at most. Did you send him back?” Fritz perches on the edge of the bed.

“I consider it a point of personal pride that they aren’t fit for anything else for the rest of the night, Fritz. The pay reflects that. Or the gifts and attention, if they’re not professionals. I like university students and young cadets better, actually, because it’s easier to tell if they’re genuinely having fun. Ordered - hmmmm - room service, fed him a bit, untied him, brought him into the shower with me, tucked him in. Sweet thing’s asleep in there.”

“I’ve no objection towards you being chivalrous, but what if he gets up and makes trouble? In the unlikely yet possible scenario that he's working for an enemy?”

“Oh, he’s got one ankle chained to a bedpost. Just in case. I’ll undo it in the morning. There’s also a spare key on the table, with a note for maid service to let him out if we have to run off unexpectedly. He's clothed.” Friedrich kneels on the lush carpet. “I’d rather sleep with you, if you’ll have me.”

“I could be persuaded.” Fritz leans back and allows his loose pajama pants to be slid down, hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Fritz doesn’t love him, but he’s glad to have him.

 

*** 

Then -

Someone finds one of Friedrich’s little friends and slashes up the boy’s face. The boy lives. Friedrich pays for his treatment. The boy’s description, along with other clues, identifies the attacker as another member of Fritz’s web. Most likely a jealous one.

Friedrich finds the culprit and beats him to death.

***

 

He sits across from Friedrich in the very room that they’d interrogated someone in together, only  a few months earlier. He places a folder and a passport on the table. “The name you’ve been using for years is fake, anyway, and it doesn’t show up anywhere, so you can keep using it if you like.”

“I will. It’ll be nice to keep - arduous -  something, sir.” Friedrich is mostly staring at the wall, with quick, guilty attempts to make eye contact. Fritz dodges them.

“No point in you saying 'sir' anymore. I persuaded the board that you take our policy of not attacking uninvolved people so seriously that you were overzealous in correcting someone who broke this rule, rather than making a proper report, and didn't mean to kill him. It took a lot of arguing to make them agree that you will be cut loose without harm, and even get a pension. I couldn’t simply order them, you know.” For number of reasons. Favoritism. Precedent. Dissension in the ranks. Confirming the rumors about both of them. The fact that he cannot always be second-guessing his right-hand-man's temper. 

“I know. Thank you.” Friedrich opens the folder and examines the various forgeries, though of course much of the paper trail cannot literally be contained within a few pieces of paper. “I’m going to get a Master’s in history? In America?”

“That’s just for visa purposes.”

 “What if I _want_ to get a Master’s in history? In America?”

Fritz fights down a smile, because smiling would hurt a lot more than looking stern. “Knock yourself out. You might have to get a scholarship or loans, though. Or a job. It's a decent pension but it's not as much as you've been earning. I hope you've put some aside over the years.”

 “I have. Thank you."

“I immensely resent what you have done to me,” Fritz says, because this man has seen him playing with a puppy, this man has eaten toast across from him while reading the newspaper to see if anything they’ve done has shown up, this man has sat next to him and watched people running from bulls in Spain and cackled at their foolhardiness, this man has shot someone who was about to stab him, this man has been his lover, never someone he's been in love _with_ , but perhaps he might actually be someone that he l _oves_. Damn it all.

Heartbeats between them, out of sync. “You don’t mean to your reputation.”

“I don’t.” The truth is in the room. It follows them, unspoken. 

Fritz has Friedrich one last time before he leaves for America. He lets himself be held after, though he is not the one whose life is about to change in every way. “Did you make up the name 'Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben' with any thought to the fact that my original name was Friedrich Wilhelm?" He doesn't mention the "II" part.

 "I thought about tacking some sort of noble title on, too, but decided you might find it silly." He cards his fingers through Fritz's hair in an unusually regular pattern. Probably a channeled tic.

"My dear von Steuben?" Perhaps it's better to go more formal in what they call each other. Even given where they are right now, one last time.

 He seems to have caught on. “Yes, Frederick?"

It’s a plea, more than anything, and horribly undignified in a way that he can perhaps only be now that they are no longer king and lionheart.  “Don’t forget to write.” 

***

_"Which brings me to that magnificent, brilliant jackal, Voltaire."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- IMPORTANT: Don't leave a person unsupervised who is physically restrained in any way, shape, or form, folks. This is a younger, less wise Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben. There's no way he'd do that during the main series timeline. 
> 
> \- Real von Steuben probably didn't make up the majority of his name, probably just the Baron part. This whole storyline is inspired when he attributed his fall from grace in the Prussian army to "a misstep and an implacable personal enemy."
> 
> \- Von Steuben wrote in a letter that in Prussia, it had been sufficient to simply give orders, but with Americans he found he often needed to explain why the order was necessary. Though once he had, they were committed.
> 
> \- Potemkin villages are based on the likely-exaggerated account of Grigory Potemkin hiring people to mock up fake villages, in order to impress Catherine the Great regarding how well areas of the country were supposedly developing. There have since been real Potemkin villages, such as the one North Korea maintains near its border with South Korea to try to encourage defection. 
> 
> \- The in-many-ways-dissatisfying Tokugawa Shogunate wanted to keep Japan isolated, but when the first Portuguese ships arrived, the Japanese saw how advanced other cultures' technology could be, and their anger at the revelation that they were being held back helped the Emperor Meiji take power. Under the Meiji Restoration, Japanese industry, technology, and diplomacy accelerated with dizzying speed. Imagine going from essentially pre-industrial in the 1860s to what they were by the 1940s. Yeah. 
> 
> (Tangential, but did you know the Portuguese merchants either invented tempura or led to its invention? I imagine them going around asking if someone would please COOK the seafood.)
> 
> \- Frederick the Great indeed loved French culture and language - he considered French a much better language for writing in than German - but was highly dismissive of it as a kingdom and believed the regime would crumble soon. 
> 
> \- FtG described himself as the "First Servant of State", and often personally led his soldiers right into battle, very rare for a European king of the time. 
> 
> \- Refresher from "Three Days Already": Philippe I, Duke of Orleans (Louis XIV's younger brother, not one of the other dukes of Orleans named Philippe) and Henrietta d'Angleterre were constantly trying to get each other's boyfriends thrown in jail, exiled, what have you. Like a darkly humorous sitcom. 
> 
> \- I came up with the "Mister/Monsieur [Number]" guys not necessarily being blood relations concept so that if I later want to have multiple ones around at the same time, I don't have to keep track of their ages.


	3. French Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter for lack of time, but I really wanted to finally get this out.

“Would you like the opportunity for me to owe you a favor?”

Fritz would love one of the French Numbers to be in his debt, but he doesn’t want to appear overeager. He smiles and inclines his head. Mr. 15 presses a button and a little cubbyhole in the wall appears with a bottle of wine and two empty glasses in it. It’s well-known that Mr. 15 gets incredibly huffy with guests who don’t drink the wine they’re offered in such a dramatic way, and that he doesn’t have a history of poisoning people in private meetings, but Fritz pours and lets his host take a sip of his own glass first before trying it. Common sense.

It turns out to be very good. Phenomenal. Probably costs more per glass than the Frenchman’s loud necktie, which is saying a lot. The Numbers love pissing their money away, in this case almost literally. The furniture in this office/study would fetch the price of most of Fritz’s various flats, at auction. He’s not one for flashy shows of wealth. He likes to plant seeds in the ground, to create, not just move money around.

“...You and I both know that many talented, versatile people don’t play well with others, or only fit into certain niches. Which is a shame.”

“Mmhm.” They mostly speak French with each other. Fritz’s French is better than Mr. 15’s English, and Mr. 15 doesn’t speak German.

“My vision is something akin to a talent agency, as it were, or perhaps even a temp agency, but for clandestine operatives. For example, I’ve made and offer a young man from South Africa who goes by Shaka Zulu. Tensions have developed among his very successful battalion of guns for hire, and he’s decided to go it alone before he gets stabbed in the back. What makes him special is besides being a skilled warrior and gifted tactitian, he can do more with less than anyone I’ve ever seen. Give him a plank, some leather, and some water, and he’ll make you a shield that might not be fully bulletproof, but will be remarkably bullet-resistant. Give him a stick and a rock and he’ll turn it into a spear of unprecedented effectiveness.“

“And how would your imagined agency work with him?”

“It would match him up with organizations that would like to hire him for individual missions or tasks. It would take a commission, of course, but he wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time chasing leads on his own. It would give him a stipend to tide him over between jobs, as long as he took on enough to make it worth our mutual while. If he wants to develop his skillset in a way that would increase his attractiveness to potention employers, we can facilitate that. If one day he finds a permanent new path, then we’ll have a procedure for parting ways, but it was clear from talking to him that he’s the sort of person great at seizing power and opportunity but not good at maintaining power or maximizing opportunity.”

“Mm.” Fritz didn’t sleep well last night. Poland’s been causing annoyance. (He started absorbing organized crime throughout Poland years ago. Friedrich thinks - thought - no, it’s thinks, he’s not dead - that he’s unusually harsh with them.)

“It’s going to be based in the United States, because there’s more room to maneuver. You only have to appease the one government to have the same amount of area to work with as you’d need to appease a dozen governments in Europe. Not counting, of course, Russia. I have contacts in the CIA, some men on the inside, some G-men..."

"Who might let some things slide."

"Exactly. Working on an arrangement where we’ll do them favors - there are a number of things the CIA would like to have done that they are not officially allowed to sanction, or that one of their normal agents wouldn’t be equipped for - and they’ll turn a blind eye to anything not flagrantly heinous by their standards.”

Intriguing. “So what is it you want from me?”

“A little co-investment might be nice, since while 16 wants to work with Americans he’s a more than a bit useless, and 14 just wants to make his headquarters glitzier and glitzier and to hell with the rest of the world. That’s optional. I mainly want you to ask that disgraced assistant of yours to lend me a hand in setting this up. Find us some talent and whip them into shape.”

Fritz’s fingers tighten on the stem of the wineglass. Von Steuben’s letters so far have all read much like mission reports, likely as a form of emotional self-defense, but he does seem to be insufficiently entertained. Studies and new playmates notwithstanding. “I’m amenable to that. I can’t guarantee his answer, though.”

Mr. 15 twists one of the many gold rings on his fingers with a slight smirk. “Of course. Pass along this invitation and make whatever reassurances that will overcome the paranoia that your employees all seem to have. Even the scientists.”

***

A scant three weeks later, Fritz is touring a research and development lab that he established and continues to fund. A few of the accountants know where the money comes from, but the vast majority of the scientists and their support staff are completely innocent people. He enjoys talking to them, even when the technical aspects stray out of his depth. They and the artists and musicians he sponsors are the closest thing to ordinary people he has anything resembling sustained interactions with.

Dr. Émilie du Châtelet, head of their Physics division, asks him to step into her office for a moment after the presentation they gave him about their current work with manipulating gravity (on a small scale, for things like magnetically levitating trains).

“Yes, Émilie?” She’s previously told him to call her that; he isn’t trivializing her. She also enjoys talking to him in German, which she speaks as well as all her other languages, which is very.

She motions for him to sit. “I’m not stupid.”

“Has anyone in your entire life been foolish enough to think that?”

“You’d be surprised. Please, Fritz, sit.” When he does, she sits in her chair and steeples her fingers. “I have an excellent understanding of finances. I've figured out that much of our funding comes from dodgy sources. I haven’t told anyone, don’t worry, and I don’t plan to. I have to prioritize, you see. But this suggests to me that you most likely have connections.”

Fritz is not as concerned as he would be with some people making a similar confession. He suspects that if Émilie had the choice between saving EITHER all of her research notes OR a human being from a fire, only her own children would stand a chance. “Connections.”

“My partner has gone missing, and this is shortly after he published an essay viciously mocking the leadership of a criminal network known as the French Numbers.”

This is a tough decision, because Fritz likes Émilie as a person and immensely admires her as a genius as well. But…”There are politics to consider. It’s not so simple. Have you tried contacting them?”

“My husband’s offered them money. They said, ‘Who?””

“Wait.”

“My partner lives with my husband and children as well as me. We’re all content with that.”

“Ah.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, no matter how expectantly she looks at him. Then she says, “Are you a fan of Voltaire’s plays?”

Yes. Yes he is. He’s seen some of them two or three times. “Are you about to quote something from them?”

“No. I’m about to tell you that my partner is Voltaire, and I’d really rather they not break his knees or encase him in concrete or whatever it is your sort of businessman does with people they dislike.” She sees his expression, and some of the tension goes out of her shoulders.

Fritz had been hoping to hold onto his favor for much longer than this, but it’s _Voltaire_. “Fine. I’ll make some calls. Tell no one.”

“Of course not.”

“And I expect him to write me one hell of a thank-you note.”

She gives him a small smile. “Be careful what you wish for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Jefferson designed special cabinets and dumbwaiters and so on so that he totally could make it look like food and beverages were coming out of the walls. On cue, I mean, not a relentless onslaught, though that'd be funny. 
> 
> Shaka Zulu - early 19th century warrior king. His army had special shields and spears, and they managed to beat the British Army in multiple battles. They lost eventually, but the British had guns and THEY DID NOT. He was killed by his half-brothers after his behavior got increasingly erratic and he lost support among the Zulu, but he is remembered as a great conqueror and innovator.
> 
> Émilie du Châtelet - wrote what is still the definitive French translation of Isaac Newton's Principia Mathematica, and made additions that improved upon and refined some of his theories about motion and gravity. Was the first woman to have a scientific paper published by the Paris Academy, in 1738. Was fluent in Latin, Greek, German, and Italian by the age of twelve. Laid theoretical groundwork re the discoveries of infared light and kinetic energy. Was in an open arranged marriage with a Marquis and dated/collaborated with Voltaire. When she lost a bunch of money to card cheats, she invented a precursor to financial derivatives in order to create a scheme involving a lot of the gamblers at court that quickly got all her money back. 
> 
> Frederick the Great really did love sponsoring scientists as well as artists...some of the money having been squeezed from poor Poland.


	4. Victims and Voltaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a scene with non-graphic torture. The act is implied, not described. There is also a different section with non-graphic violence to someone who really deserves it. 
> 
> It's as violent as this fic is going to get. 
> 
> There's some humor and comfort too, I promise. With a sprinkling of badassery. Feels continue as they have thus far.

_"Is it strange for you, that I'm talking to you about people you've been a therapist for as well? You're the only person I've told all these things too, and when I imagine a similar level of intimacy and openness from Friedrich and Voltaire, which may or may not have involved me..."_

_"Good morning to you too, Fritz."_

_"Ah, yes. Sorry."_

_"You're fine. It's slightly harder to compartmentalize than under ordinary circumstances, but this is not the first time. It's more common in a microcosmic environment like a temporary-stay inpatient ward."_

_"My friends talk to their friends talk to their friends talk to you."_

_"Nice American pop culture reference."_

_"Voltaire says all art matters as a part of our culture and the human experience. Even art he makes fun of."_

_"You were pretty intent on elaborating on your relationship when we ran out of time last session."_

_"I don't want to extensively describe what was in the letters themselves. It's not like they were love letters, but I - I suppose I was very lonely then..."_

_***_

It's a hell of a thank-you letter. It's almost ten pages long, in neat fountain pen script. The first two pages are the actual thank-you, while the rest gives an irreverent and bitingly sardonic description of how he offended the gang in the first place and what he thought of them up-close as their prisoner, then the terms of his release and where he plans to go from here.

They're going to kill him if he is ever seen again within their sphere of influence. Which is essentially all of Western Continental Europe. Thankfully in the few days before Émilie asked Fritz's help, they'd only gotten as far as dramatic tirades and a little bit of roughing up. 15 was considerably more squeamish than 14, who'd been ready to break out the spiky things. Instead of deciding what to do with Voltaire they'd spent a lot of time squabbling with each other, sometimes even when standing just outside the honest-to-god dungeon cell they'd put him in. 16 mostly moped in the corner, timidly eating pastries until excused. Fritz can't help but snort at the image.

Voltaire's going to see London has to offer him. He's got some contacts in the West End theatre scene, it's an interesting city in its own right, and it won't be too difficult for Émilie to visit him. He says he regrets the difficulty of thanking his benefactor in person, but he has always enjoyed corresponding by mail and resists the encroachment of email except in purely business matters. (A kindred spirit!)

"I have little to offer you, but if you will permit me, I can do my best to build you palaces out of paragraphs - in fact I'll build cathedrals, which is a significant offer from someone so against the Church..."

Fritz generally burns Mina's letters once he's read them, and by mutual agreement she burns his (the world has no right to his heart). It's the same with von Steuben (the world has no place in his bed). But he can't bear to burn Voltaire's. He does not tell Voltaire to burn his. He says nothing about his misdeeds, though Voltaire surely must have some idea. Unlike with Mina he doesn't pour out his troubles. He finds someone to match wits with, someone on his level in enthusiasm for arts and sciences, and there doesn't seem to be a catch.

He's seen photos of Voltaire. He could seek out footage of him, he could read interviews with him, and follow the news stories about the abrupt relocation of the playwright, journalist, satirist, essayist, amateur scientist, polymath pain-in-the-ass, but he doesn't. He's got a front-row seat to a show that is only for him.

One week later, Voltaire's writing him shorter letters, but he's writing them nightly. He says it's fine that Fritz doesn't have time to do the same, or as much to say, or the elegance and eloquence to say it like he does.

What Fritz writes, he means every word, though. "Now my life gets better every letter that you write me."

***

Friedrich turns thirty. All the way across the sea, Fritz toasts him and goes to visit the 'boy' Friedrich threw away his shot for. The plastic surgeon did well enough so that the student looks normal, though not quite so pretty as Fritz vaguely remembers, and is progressing nicely at university. He shrugs and accepts the offer Friedrich's former pet makes him after dinner. Fritz prefers closer to his own age, but it seems fitting, and it's not an unpleasant experience by any means.

"You were crying, sir," he hears in the small hours of the morning, as he's being nudged awake.

"Don't call me sir," he says, pulling the pliant body close. That's all this young man is to him, though Fritz knows he must be reasonably bright and well-spoken for Friedrich to have sought out his company multiple times.

It occurs to Fritz who he wishes were there instead. The young man doesn't notice, or at least doesn't ask about, the name being repeatedly traced into his skin as Fritz allows himself to be comforted after a nightmare he can't remember. That's the catch, isn't it? The catch is that he might never touch his letter-writer, doesn't know if he'd be wanted, either.

It's fair enough, though, because the boy sighs out "Baron" a few times, which is not something Fritz has ever asked anyone to call him.

***

Torturing someone in cold blood is not something Fritz enjoys. Punching someone in hot blood, maybe, if Fritz is in a certain mood and the man is repugnant to him. He doesn’t hit women except in self-defense, which happened once when some enemies hoped to take advantage of his relatively noble nature. He has female employees hit any women that need to be hit, as a compromise between gallantry, desire to avoid sexism, and practicality.

He takes no joy in methodically causing pain. In fact, he’s vomited afterwards a few times, though unlike in adolescence he is no longer punished for that. But he will never command a deed that he would not do himself. He needs to remind his people of this from time to time.

He doesn’t hide from his rank and file that he doesn’t enjoy it. He doesn’t want to encourage gleeful sadism, and he has anyone who seems too enthusiastic about such duties dealt with using an appropriate level of severity. Gleeful sadism leads to sloppiness, he tells them, and to losing track of priorities. If we must hurt people, we do it judiciously, neatly.

He doesn’t tell them that unnecessary cruelty being done in his name would make him see his father in the mirror.

An important part of the technique is to give the victim the impression that he doesn’t mind at all, though. “If you hold still, there will be less damage,” he says calmly. For the video. It’s just the two of them in this room, but there’s a live feed, and guards just outside.

“Fuck you,” the ex-contractor grits out through the tears he’s holding in.

“You have three children. Two girls. A boy. Their mother died less than a year ago. My condolences.” He holds the man’s little finger still to stop all the twitching within its limited range of motion, because it is absolutely true that there will be less damage that way.

“You’re - you’re bluffing. Everyone knows you don’t go ffff-or, for for the famiLEEEEEEE!”

Fritz holds down the ring finger as well now. “That’s why you tried to take more than your fair share, isn’t it? It’s harder to take care of them on your own.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Who said I was going to threaten them? I suspect someone made you a better offer, hm? Deep breaths, friend, I need you here with me. Are you holding back because you’re afraid of what they’ll do if you tell me the truth? You’re right that I’m rare in having such a policy. It’s unlikely that the others have it. They will put your children through at least as much as I’m putting you through. Tell me what happened to the shipment to Warsaw, and all relevant details, and you go back to the cell, with meals and shower privileges, until we’ve verified it. And then we will show you proof that your children have been relocated to a safehouse. Then you will tell us who hired you to steal from us, and all relevant details. And then, under certain terms and conditions, you will be allowed to all go to a permanent new home together.”

There’s a long silence between them. Pain and hope versus fear and disbelief, most likely.

Fritz picks up the box and rattles it. “I still have quite a lot of needles. We’re early on. Fingernails replace themselves, unlike, say, teeth.”

Hope creeps in, fighting the disbelief, filtering through the pain. “They, they speak English pretty well. Their school has a good program.”

“I hear parts of Australia are nice at some point in the year.” Going gentle after extended harshness was one of Friedrich’s favorite tactics. (He’s not dead, but he doesn’t do things like that anymore. He’s helping Mr. 15 create his Agency and he’s writing a book about the history of the drill sergeant. Fritz suddenly misses him so much he can barely breathe.)

They get most of the shipment back, and the resulting skirmish with the House of Hanover leaves only one of their own dead, and a number of important lessons taught.

Some months later, he’s handed a picture of three children and their father in front of a little house in the midst of the vast outback. The children look healthy. Their father knows how to fly light aircraft. It’s a useful skill out there. He delivers legal things now. Fritz’s people will keep them safe, and not just because they still need to be able to threaten the father (possible withdrawal of protection). Fritz genuinely wants those children to be okay.

That will make it okay.

Right?

Right?

***

Fritz dreams of the Norse Ragnarok, and the ship made of dead men’s nails.

He wakes up and reads Voltaire’s latest letter again. It’s about an argument he and Émilie had about the composition of fire during her visit, and how in the process she ran off and wrote some formula for making better heat sensors. There’s another letter about going to a Shakespeare festival, criticizing certain performances in a hilariously vicious manner. Another one’s about maybe checking out the U.S. if Voltaire gets bored.

He falls back asleep under a blanket of affectionate paper.

***

The group who is assigned to keep tabs on those with similar bargains do the same for his sister and niece. Mina named Sophia after their mother, whom she says was the source of every good thing in both her offspring. Almost all of these agents are unaware that they’ve been assigned to watch the boss’ family.

Mina has a husband, but they’re separated, and only her disapproval keeps Fritz from having him quietly done away with. Instead he's taken it upon himself to expedite the divorce. What’s slowing it down is that he’s trying to make the divorce come as close to bankrupting the husband as possible, without Mina noticing.

When Sophia was born, Fritz stopped meeting up with Mina, for fear of anyone connecting the dots and putting his tiny baby niece in danger. He learned how to use a webcam so he can smile and wave at her. Mina helped Sophia wave back at first. Now she can wave on her own.

“Bye Unk Fit,” Sophia says one video call.

Unk Fit goes out drinking after, and finds an anonymous one-night stand to wring him out.

***

Fritz almost pours hot coffee all over Philippe’s lovely sparkly ballgown when he insists on going on and on about how wonderful his and Henrietta’s children are. “We both wanted kids so badly that we made a deal to have sex with each other, and if the DNA proved I was the father I’d support them financially in a way none of her lovers could,” Philippe explains. “I had to watch some, shall we say inspirational, videos beforehand each time, but I managed it.”

***

Voltaire writes in reply that Émilie’s children were pleasant to have around, but he personally doesn’t feel much of a connection with children. He wishes for their welfare and protection, of course, and feels one must be kind to them, for without a minimum of kindness from adults none of us would have survived childhood, and we must repay this debt. This turns into a long essay about coming of age and when exactly it becomes odd, or even disturbing, to call women ‘girls’.

Elisabeth emails her husband to inform him of various developments on the public relations side of things. Fritz tells her he’ll make one of his Keeping Up Appearances visits to her soon, and to send away anyone she’s currently sleeping with so he doesn’t have to awkwardly act like he didn’t notice and that he’d care if he did.

Friedrich writes that Mr. 15 is now living nearby, and they have set up a small base in Virgina that is near enough to Quantico (FBI headquarters) and Langley (CIA headquarters) to keep an eye on them, but far enough away to dodge them. Much of their network interacts with them remotely, but it’s good to have a place to call the Agency home. They’re still figuring out its name, and currently telling all their clients different ones. And he’s found a publisher for his book, and teaching the occasional class at a university near his house. He says he’s been remarkably law-abiding since transplanting himself, all things considered. He never says he misses Fritz, but he never stops meaning it.

Émilie, via phone call, tells Friedrich that she’d like her team to try applying for a few patents. He endorses this and piles on the praise. He bites back questions about Voltaire.

***

At a debriefing with one of his task forces, Fritz is paying the bare minimum of attention towards what is actually being said. He has insomnia now as well as nightmares, and he is wary of trying any substances to help him. He’s seen people in the business meet their downfalls that way.

“...So it turned out they were actually using the son…”

Things snap into focus. “How old?”

“Eleven, sir. Had a backpack full of counterfeit money. It didn’t take long to get him to snitch on the rest of the operation.” The man is as blithe as can be.

Fritz stays very calm, in order to get the truth. “Did you let him go, after?”

“No, sir, it was regrettable but he knew too much. It’s a shame at that age, but he’d gotten himself involved -”

Without conscious intent, Fritz draws his gun and shoots the man in the gut. He gets to his feet. All the noise in the room is very far away. “If any of you care to get him medical attention, you’ve likely got enough of a window to save him. Or you can let him die in agony. I don’t give a damn.”

***

The moment he is safe, he calls her.

“Mina, I need you, I need to see you, we gotta figure out a way, I NEED YOU, please, please, pick up the phone, I need you now, my sister I need you, I’m going mad, Mina, please…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspirations:
> 
> \- Voltaire's imprisonment and temporary exile to England  
> \- Kings Louis XIV, XV, and XVI getting progressively less warlike, effective, and decisive  
> \- The argument about fire leading to Émilie publishing the paper that posited infrared light  
> \- Frederick the Great's ceremonial courtesy visits to his wife once a year. Visit the Wife (ugh) Day, as it were.  
> \- Philippe I's adoration of his children and the grin-and-bear-it circumstances of dutiful heir production  
> \- The Hamilton musical having a lot of singing about letter-writing


	5. Mina, Émilie, and Elisabeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure why this one is different in format. It wanted to be written this way, and I didn't fight it.
> 
> I want to take a moment to say that I might not always reply to your comments, coffeecrowns, but I love you.

_ “It sounds like that incident particularly affected you. Why do you think you shot him?” _

_ Fritz takes a sip of water. “He thought nothing of hurting a child.” _

_ “Neither did some of the other people you had worked with over the years.” _

_ Angelica - Fritz consistently calls her Angelica now - has a point. He thinks about it for a moment. “This was on another level. He made no distinction between someone who chose to get involved in crime and violence, and a little boy whose family, or whoever was in charge of him, had left him no other options. That boy could have grown up to be anything! Whatever dreams he’d had, they’d been pushed aside because of adult agendas, and then, then, in the service of this horrible all-encompassing empire my father built, any slim chance of something honest and better for that boy was gone. Forever. That’s - that’s unforgivable.” _

_ Then he notices he’s crushed the small bottle in his grip, and the water is spilling over his hands and through his fingers. Angelica says nothing. Her expression is not one of pity, and it is not of scorn. It’s one that says there’s someone in his corner. She gives him space to put the pieces together on his own. _

_ “Oh,” Fritz says faintly. _

_ “I’ve got homework for you during the next Journaling Time. Peggy will let you work on it during Art Therapy if you need to, if you want. I need you to list the steps you took that were in reaction to that moment, and your reasoning for them. Bring that list for next time we talk. Okay?” _

_ “It might be a rather long list.” _

_ “Hey, I doubt it’ll be a boring one.” She hands him a tissue. He dabs at his eyes. _

_ *** _

Step 1: 

I asked Mina to entrust Sophia with someone who could keep her safe for a day or two - while surrounded by their usual undercover guards, I mean - and met her at one of my irregular private hideouts. Light security,, and they weren’t allowed to actually see what was happening inside. It was that or...I’m not sure what, but it was a big “or”. A frightening “or”.

She let me lie on the sofa with my head in her lap, staring at the ceiling with tears slipping out now and then. She didn’t ask why. Later she encouraged me to play the flute for her. She stayed overnight, in another bed in the same room. When we talked, we talked about inconsequential things. I didn’t get to talk about inconsequential things with people very often, not aloud I mean. I was worried about what might happen to Voltaire if my connection to him were more obvious. He’d managed to piss off the Regents by then, and had fled to New York City. The letters took longer to go back and forth all the way across the sea, but they were so much more precious than email, you know?

During our late breakfast before she had to leave, Mina put her hand on my wrist. “Has it ever occurred to you that he can’t punish you this time?”

Like you do, Angelica, she let me put the pieces together by myself. “Are you giving me advice?” I asked.

“I’m giving you permission for what you clearly want. As things are, you will never be satisfied.”

Permission from my sister, who’s always been by my side, no matter where I’ve been. I asked her to help me plan. To teach me how to say goodbye.  
  


***

Step 2:

I told von Steuben. Friedrich. I called him on the phone and called him Friedrich. Me, I trusted him, and I was fairly certain he still loved me, even if I didn’t know where I stood on the matter. Most of all, I’d helped him walk away, and he could share the hard-won wisdom he had earned in the process. 

“I can help you with a fake - STROKE - paper trail, but when it comes to visas you might have to talk to Mr. 15. Ugh.” Friedrich hadn’t gone into details, but I knew they’d been divided on several things about how to run the Agency. “I have a spare room, too. I mean, you’d be welcome to, uh, not use the spare room, but there is one, either way.”

I told him I might take him up on that, because too many hotel rooms alone over the years was starting to sap the life out of me.

***

Step 3:

I went to Émilie, in secret, because she owed me and because I couldn’t think of anyone better qualified. I handed her a briefcase. I told her it was full of information that could get a person sent to prison for a very long time, as well as other information people would kill for. I told her to learn it and dispose of it as soon as possible.

It was everything she needed to fund the scientific side of my enterprises for several decades, while carefully severing their ties to the mud and muck that they’d first bloomed from. Within a few years, every aspect of her beloved labs would be clean. Honest. Self-sustaining.

She took it solemnly. “Why are you doing this?”

I told her I was going home. I’d figure out what that was along the way.

***

Step 4:

I made the promised visit to my wife, and I did the same thing with her, but with the artistic enterprises rather than scientific. I didn’t want to give Mina a burden like that, not when Elisabeth had such skill at management. 

I told her I knew I’d been cold to her, that we hadn’t even been friends, but I trusted her competence. I’d always admired her way with people. Plus she would to get half my personal fortune should she agree to an expedited divorce. At which point I showed her the papers and where to sign.  A combination of lawyers, bribes, and mild threats made everything very simple.

“Gimme a pen,” she said cheerfully. 

I did this because I would have no real need to pretend anymore, and because she deserved a reward for all her help. I said so, and she laughed and asked me if I’d like to stay for some celebratory cake. I did. We’d never enjoyed each company so much before that day. 

***

Step 5:

I wrote up a will that handed the reins of the criminal core, the heart of the darkness, to the son of one of my most trusted inner circle. The official line was that now that his father - who’d been like a younger brother to me - had died, it was logical that his son was like a nephew to me, and should become “the next Frederick”.

Really, though, I chose him because he was adequate as a follower, but I knew he’d be a terrible leader. I knew he was indecisive and unwilling to get his hands dirty. I knew he was foolish, selfish, lacking in initiative, and easily distracted without a firm hand guiding him. I knew that under him, everything my father built would decay. Crumble. Shrink, weaken, split, and fade away into memory. 

Meanwhile, what I was proudest of would be in the hands of two brilliant women. Everything built on brains and beauty, not blood, would have a future. 

***

Step 6:

As a favor to me that he planned to collect on one day, Mr. 15 convinced Mr. 16 to collect on favors that he’d done for the U.S. government, the nature of which were never explained to me. I’m sure this is the sort of thing anti-immigration people have nightmares about - well, except for me being German, I think that’s an entirely different genre of nightmare - but frankly I’ve been a model green card holder ever since. 

Mr. 16 asked what I’d like my new legal name to be. I chose Frederick von Katte, because I don't think I'll ever stop being his.

***

Step 7:

I destroyed a lot of evidence and faked my own death. I think this is obvious. I “had a stroke while taking a nap in a chair”, because I don’t want to die violently, even as a lie. I don’t want to give someone the satisfaction of having killed me. 

I decided not to tell Philippe that I was alive, but because I thought he might be sad, I anonymously sent him a pair of bejeweled high-heeled pumps in his size. He always had trouble getting them in his size. 

***

Step 8:

I packed two suits, two sets of clothes appropriate for each season, my flute, a photo album with pictures of Mina and I as children (and a few photos not of me and Mina, ones I don’t look at often), Voltaire’s letters, a birthday card Sophia drew for me, a completely new laptop (see previous step), and some books to read en route. I wanted to bring as little of my old life with me as possible.

***

Step 9:

I discussed with Voltaire via encrypted email how to safely meet in person soon, after I’d found my bearings and was sure nobody was following me. 

***

Step 10:

I didn’t fly directly to Dulles International Airport in Virginia, because I didn’t want to leave an easy trail for anyone to follow. Just in case. I went to multiple countries on the way, sometimes staying briefly, sometimes connecting immediately.

First, I went to Heathrow Airport, London. I did this because I was never told what they did with his body. He has no grave that I know of, no ashes. I went to Heathrow like we almost did, and I went to the airport bar and ordered two pints of a beer he liked. They didn’t have his favorite.

“I made it, Hans, ” I said, clinking our glasses together, ignoring the looks from people nearby. “It took a few more decades, but I did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- A tear literally rolled down my face when writing the beginning and ending.
> 
> \- See how I compensated for not including Frederick the Great's brothers in this AU, thus making him being literally succeeded by his younger brother's son slightly complicated?
> 
> \- I took specific inspiration from Frederick the Great's death and what happened afterwards. Well, except for putting those two ladies in charge, which is me improving things. 
> 
> \- I will never be tired of writing people being supportive of crossdressing/unconventional gender presentation.


	6. Friedrich, Friedrich's, and Marie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had time to kill today. Let it be known that the city names are a coincidence that I didn't realize until yesterday.

He makes it to Virginia. Friedrich picks him up at the airport and says many things. Fritz says very few, and Friedrich doesn’t press him. It takes less than an hour before the walls protecting the highway lower, suburbia recedes, and the land around them truly opens up to green. Gazing at the rolling fields, he can’t believe he’s finally free.

Friedrich lives in a little house in Spotsylvania County, which is just across the small Rappahanock river from the city of Fredericksburg. Between Voltaire, Mina, and Friedrich, all the jokes about the name have been made.

“His Royal High-and-Mighty-ness didn’t want me to tell you except in person, but the Agency’s headquarters are roughly equidistant between Fredericksburg and Williamsburg. Just as well that you’re not Frederick William anymore, hm?”

“Just as well,” Fritz agrees. They pass what he thinks is an alpaca farm, full of gawky and gentle-faced creatures.

Friedrich doesn’t have interrogating people to eliminate his tics anymore, but he says his new medication makes them more manageable. He’d resisted for a long time. Adults needing medication for Tourette’s is relatively rare. A student who’d assisted him with research for his now-published first book had eventually convinced him. “I didn’t take Benjy to bed with me until after I’d signed off on him completing the ‘experiential learning’ college credit, don’t look at me like that.” He sighs wistfully.

“Was that one special?”

“He’s graduated and gone now, but we’re still friends,” Friedrich says. Which means yes. Extremely.

They’re greeted at the door by a delighted Italian greyhound, the choice of breed giving Fritz all sorts of feelings. He’d given all of his away to good homes after he no longer had Friedrich to lovingly care for them when he was busy. His other assistants had only fed and walked them. No affection. They didn’t deserve that.

Fritz puts down his suitcase and immediately crouches down to let the dog inspect him. “Who are you? Hm? Who are you, little one? Yes? Yes?”

“This is Azor, and he needs to back off and let us get past the entryway,” Friedrich says, all mock-sternness. “He’s friendly with strangers who first come in with me. He must figure that I don’t need to be informed of them, and have evaluated their character.”

“A good trait.”

The dining room table was half-covered with books of all kinds, as well as a laptop and two chairs more associated with desks than dining. “I have a desk in my bedroom, but my current research assistant would feel uncomfortable working in there and I don’t want to be moving things back and forth - ETIQUETTE - constantly. She knows which way I lean, but it’s understandable for a woman to be wary no matter what.”

“You’re working on another book, then?” Fritz follows him to the guest room.

“Yes. A queer history of Berlin. If Marie is here, by the way, she’ll stay out of your way unless you seek her out. Up to you, but it might be awkward if you do. She’s Mr. 15’s ex-wife. He pays her a lot to keep her silent. She doesn't want to sit around at home all day, though, and it's nice having someone I don't have to constantly obscure my other career from, even if I don't share details. I have to tell you that I am extremely close to washing my hands of that man. I can only work with him two, three times a week before I need to regain my temper.”

“Mm.” Fritz doesn’t feel like caring about that world right now. He will be kind to this Marie if they interact. Otherwise he’s indifferent.

The room is clean and comforting, all in dark blue and cream with reproductions of 18th century paintings on the walls. The bed is queen-size. There’s a table tall enough to double as a desk, one practical chair, and one armchair. A closet. A bureau. A mirror. A window opens out to a fenced-in garden. The bathroom is not en suite per se, but there’s a connecting door to the hall bathroom, with its own lock. Fritz lives simply in his day-to-day life, and it’s all he needs for an indefinite but temporary stay.

“Azor’s been trained not to enter rooms that have doors, and I’d prefer you didn’t undermine my authority,” Friedrich says. He places Fritz’s luggage in one corner of the room.

“I won’t.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, not looking at each other. Eventually Friedrich says, “Dinner’s at seven if you want to join me. Otherwise I’ll leave your portion easily accessible for whenever you choose. Etiquette.”

“Thank you. What’s your wifi password?”

He sends the same message to Mina, Elisabeth, Émilie, and Voltaire, but separately: “Safe.”

***

For the next few days, Fritz eats when it’s time to eat, showers when it’s time to shower, and reads Friedrich’s first book, written in English to maximize the market reach. _A High-Volume on the History of the Drill Sergeant_ is entertaining and informative. He writes to Voltaire. He goes to sit in the garden and feel the sun, and he plays with the dog. He hides from Marie. He hides from what must be Friedrich’s boy of the month, or whatever rate he’s going through them these days. He tries to sleep when it is time to sleep.

He tries, and fails, to sleep when it is time to sleep.

One night, he knocks on Friedrich’s door. He knows the boy is not here tonight. It’s been too quiet for that. Friedrich gets up immediately. His voice is soft. “What is it?”

“Could you. Could you, er, could you perhaps join me in the guest room, but not for sex? I know you can’t sleep while cuddling, but if, maybe if we held hands...I’m very tired. I am very, very, very, very tired.”

Then ensues the first time Fritz has ever been kissed and hair-tousled to sleep, a watchful yet tender presence beside him, and sleep he does. It becomes a regular thing. Friedrich doesn’t ask for more. It’s not that the man has become unattractive to him over the years, but them being lovers is part of Fritz’s criminal life. He doesn’t want anything that was part of that life.

“Some exercise would be - BLUE - good for you,” Friedrich says one morning. “There’s a stream I know in a nearby park. It’s taking longer each dusk for it to get dark. Azor needs a good frolic.”

***

Fritz starts walking around the neighborhood a bit. Sometimes with Azor, sometimes not. He is still barricaded against his past and vague about his future.

This is an Azor-less walk. He returns to the house worn out but clear-headed. Except there’s a pretty twentysomething who sees Fritz and has a tantrum about Friedrich not inviting him to stay overnight anymore.

Friedrich grabs the front of the young man’s shirt and says calmly, “Petal, you’re assuming yet again that you have any claim on me. Is that part of our agreement?”

“Petal” swallows, wide-eyed. “No, Baron.”

“Do you sub for other people sometimes?”

“Yes, Baron."

“Are you going to turn around and pull yourself together for, say, two hours before you come back and prove yourself worthy of attention?”

He silently pouts until Friedrich puts a heavy hand on the back of his neck. Then he lets out a swooning sort of sigh. “...Yes, Baron.”

“There’s a good pet. Now go. I’ll see you after dinner. Say sorry to my _completely platonic_ _friend_ on the way out, not that it should matter.”

Later Friedrich explains that “Petal” is a private nickname derived from the surname Pontiere, and that Pontiere is prone to throwing dramatic fits but redeemingly compliant afterwards.

***

“‘Baron’? Really?”

“Don’t judge me.”

***

He eventually runs into Marie, who looks to be in her 30s and has the face of a sweet person rather than a strictly beautiful one. She doesn’t make eye contact and has slightly odd body language, but she has a nice smile. Good manners. She shies away from the proffered handshake. She talks like they are following a script, and she asks him not to disturb any of the books or stacks of paper, even if they look messy to him.

“I like things to be a certain way,” she says. He notices that also she likes rubbing her fingers on the tablecloth.

“Friedrich says you’re very detail-oriented.” And that she is distressed by deviations from routine, and that he should speak plainly to her, not expect her to recognize sarcasm or detailed metaphor.

Her smile widens, becomes less practiced. “He’s right.”

***

Voltaire calls him, and says he’s got a hotel room booked in DC under his “civilian” name, Francois Arouet. “There’s going to be a symposium, and two of my friends are giving presentations. I think it will be a nice context for us to first meet in person. The hotel’s sold out, so you will be stuck with me, but there are two beds. What do you say?”

“Yes,” Fritz says with embarrassing speed. He clears his throat. “Who are your friends?”

“Benjamin Franklin and Francesco Algarotti.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting autism spectrum representation in this series for a while now, but I wanted to start with someone for whom it had some basis in real personality without being going too obvious and stereotypical. (In another story, I'm going to feature a character whose historical counterpart is a fairly cliche autistic!headcanon. It was suggested that I start with a less cliche counterbalance.) 
> 
> Queen Marie Leszczyńska's marriage to Louis XV was initially happy, but after the difficult birth of her tenth live child, which nearly killed her, she very reasonably refused any more sex with him. Thanks to royal inbreeding, there was a lot of miscarriage, stillbirth, and death in infancy, too. This was when he started his series of official mistresses, more beautiful and witty than her. (She got along well with only one of them. Guess which one.) To increase her importance and dignity in a court where she had no political influence, she set up a series of elaborate rituals and manners to organize social goings-on. That way she could feel in control, not powerless. That's where I took my inspiration. Also, her true popularity came from her being generous, gentle, and inclined to charity. People on the spectrum are often typecast as lacking in feeling and warmth, which is a broad generalization that I want to provide a counterexample of. 
> 
> She also hated Voltaire and had him banned from the palace. Voltaire angered a lot of people, seriously. But not Franklin and Algarotti, with whom he was quite close, especially Franklin. Which is awesome. And Algarotti was friends with Émilie, too.


	7. Polymaths and Prodigies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sometimes I'm in these states where I know I'd be hypomanic if I weren't so well medicated. One of the ways I know is that I write an especially ridiculous amount in a short period of time. 
> 
> \- I changed my mind, and the other, more stereotypical autistic character is showing up in this chapter rather than in another story. I hope it is amply clear that I am not trying to pigeonhole all autistic people into this mold. I hope you like him anyway.

 

Voltaire kisses him on both cheeks when they meet - in the manner of the French, of course. Fritz mustn’t be too enthusiastic. It’s bad enough how tongue-tied he’s become. In any case, Voltaire is far too handsome for anybody’s good. In a sharp, impish way.

Friedrich lent him his car. Fritz’s fake documents include a new driver’s license that will be accepted valid here, and considering how much more rigorous German license requirements are than the American, he doesn’t think it hurts anybody. He’s agreed to go car shopping soon. He’s starting to want to emerge from Friedrich’s house a little more.

It’s all a whirlwind as they get settled into the room and Voltaire hands him a printed schedule of all the speakers and a map of the entire convention center. “The organizers have been incredibly rude and scheduled Franklin and Francesco at the same time, so I will go to see Franklin’s and you will go to Francesco’s. Trust me on this; you will like him, and funnily enough he is precisely your age except a few months. The advantage is that we will all be able to meet for a late lunch afterwards. I have made reservations so that we may eat without having to leave the building. Cold rain is not my favorite weather.”

“Yes, good,” Fritz contributes. He cringes inside. 

Voltaire grins and pats his shoulder. “It is wonderful to see you in the flesh, truly.”

 

***

Doctor Francesco Algarotti gives a forty-minute talk entitled “Philosophy of Science: What it is and Why it Matters”. Until that moment, Fritz himself has never heard of the field.

Francesco keeps his part-silver hair in a short ponytail. His glasses are gold-rimmed, his gestures enthusiastic and eyes bright. He speaks in the manner of someone sharing wonderful secrets. He has a noticeable but faint Italian accent. It flavors his English rather than informing every aspect. “When I tell people I teach philosophy of science, many wonder if I am trying to bring back ‘natural philosophy’ as a term for science, as a sort of retroactive fancy.”

The words themselves are not hugely funny, but his clear joy at just being there and talking to them sends a good-natured chuckle through the audience. His hands with their slender fingers dance in the air. He makes a waistcoat look sleek yet endearing rather than out of place, and he has a pink rose in his suit jacket’s buttonhole. “Philosophy of science is the school of thought that examines the foundations, methods, and implications of science. To use a very practical and realistic example with which we can relate…”

He clicks on the overhead projector, which illustrates his next points with little drawings. “Suppose a group of scientists wishes to secure funding to gather up massive tonnage of ancient amber, in which are preserved ancient insects, in order to see if there is viable DNA of contemporary creatures, but they first consult someone such as myself. First I ask them why they want to see if there is viable DNA in the first place....”

He leads them through a chain of events that culminates in “what is certainly not a facsimile of the Jurassic Park logo” with a giant X through it. “Now, most of the time philosophy of science saves us from ills such as fallacious survey results, quack medicine, inaccurate applications of social theory that may lead to great harm, wrongheaded government policy in reaction to scientific studies - but it just might avert marauding dinosaurs as well. Pay close attention to the next part, though it’s a tad more dry, and I promise there will be comic book supervillains in store…”

 

***

“I am interested in so many different disciplines that I decided to take a step back and observe them all,” Francesco explains as they contemplate the menus. There were so many people raising their hand during the twenty-minute Q&A that Fritz had saved his own questions for lunch.

“I’m glad it went so well,” Voltaire says, squeezing Francesco’s hand. Fritz watches their interactions carefully. Voltaire says he’s known Franklin longer, yet he’s more touchy-feely with Francesco, who is amenable but not very reciprocal. Hm. 

They are both appallingly good-looking. Fritz stares at the list of appetizers. What are potato skins? Surely not the literal things by themselves. Nobody would want them. 

Franklin is at least a few years older than Fritz, sturdy of build and sunny of disposition. Fritz learned that Franklin has partial Hawaiian heritage but grew up largely in Philadelphia. “Ada filmed my lecture on the political ramifications of clean energy if you’d like to watch it later, Mr. Von Katte, but you don’t have to just to be polite.”

“Please, call me Fritz, all my friends do. Who is Ada?”

Franklin points. “She is.”

Ada is a young woman whose appearance suggests that she couldn’t decide whether to be an elegant lady or a rumpled geek. Her carefully plaited hair is partly undone, she’s wearing ripped jeans under her lacy skirt, her silky blouse is unbuttoned enough to see that her t-shirt underneath says “/Everybody stand back/ I know regular expressions.”, and her beautifully tailored jacket has orange snack chip dust all down one sleeve. 

For a moment Fritz wonders, incredulous, if she’s one of Franklin’s habitual conquests (Voltaire says he’s quite the legend through sheer geniality), but she says, “Uncle Frank, can Cabbage come sit quietly with you guys for a bit? He’s overwhelmed, and you’re sitting in a corner and the other non-stranger here. Right now I can’t ground him and do my thing simultaneously.”

Franklin glances around to see if the others at the table look dismayed. Nobody does. “That should be fine. Isn’t the award ceremony in two hours?”

“That’s why he’s not going back to the room. He’s afraid he won’t make it out again. Just a sec.”

She returns gently towing a young man about her age by the sleeve. He’s gone the “rumpled geek” route without hesitation. He sits in the chair offered. He has an object in his hands that he’s fiddling with. He looks extremely tense. 

“I’d stay, but Professor Somerset’s giving a talk in ten minutes and I promised to film her too!” Ada waves at everyone and dashes off.

“This is Charles Babbage,” Franklin tells everyone. Everyone greets him.

Nearly a minute after being greeted, Charles looks up. “Hi. How are you. What’s your name.” He says them as statements, not questions.

They give their names, he says, “I am fine. You can’t call me Charlie.” Then he goes back to the thing he’s working on.

“Is that a Rubik’s dodecahedron?” Francesco asks.

Charles looks up. He smiles the smallest bit. “Yes. Cubes finish before I feel better.”

“Ada and Charles have been nominated for a STEM Prodigy award for their joint project in computer science.”

“And engineering,” Charles corrects, the plastic pieces clicking. “She programs, I build. She's not really his niece. This is Phase 1. Can I have a drink?”

***

Francesco figures out that asking Charles about his girlfriend Georgiana - “Ada’s my best friend, not my girlfriend, Georgiana’s my girlfriend,” Charles says several different times - is the best way to get him to thaw. Then it turns out Charles has a friend who goes to William and Mary, where Francesco teaches. Fritz has a separate conversation with Franklin and Voltaire that sputters a few times when Franklin tilts his head and makes a face like he’s listening to something far away.

“They’re not real,” Charles says to Franklin matter-of-factly, in the middle of telling Francesco about how his calculus professor made a mistake on the board and Charles had to fix it. 

“I know, thank you,” Franklin replies. “Drink your milkshake.”

Then Voltaire stiffens and bares his teeth. “Watch my things,” he growls, and he gets up and stalks over to another table.

Franklin watches where Voltaire goes and sighs. “R-V insult bingo?”

Francesco looks as well. “Yes, R-V insult bingo.”

They each take out a small notebook and start drawing little squares, filling them with French insults. “I don’t speak as much French as I'd like, but there are a lot of repeats when Voltaire and Rousseau fight,” Francesco says. “You just have to get three in a row.”

Voltaire raises his voice first. “ _ Have you been spreading your totalitarian nationalism thinly disguised as faith in humanity again?”  _

Both his close friends cross off a square. Charles finishes the third side of his dodecahedron. 

***

Ada and Charles win the award and a few hundred dollars of prize money, and Charles ends up insisting that Francesco and Fritz come along to the celebratory dinner Franklin treats the pair to. Fritz also sees a few other talks and mingles with more clever people who don’t know who he is. Was. Who he was. It’s the best day he’s had in a long time.

When he returns to the hotel room, Voltaire is sitting at the desk in pajamas, hair damp, and writing a letter. He turns his head and smiles. “I’m sorry I made a scene. Did you enjoy the rest of your day?”

“Don’t worry about it. And I did. Who are you writing to?”

“My sister. Her daughter’s just graduated secondary school and started university, but I wasn’t able to be there, of course.” 

“Sometimes I felt like I lived for your letters,” Fritz blurts out.

Voltaire puts his pen down and turns around more fully, though he remains in the chair. “I wasn’t aware you’d given me such responsibility,” he says softly.

“Thoughts of you subside, then I get another letter, and I cannot push the notion away...that…” Fritz moves closer. Closer. The moment hangs in agonized balance. He puts a hand on Voltaire’s cheek.

And. Voltaire. Laughs.

***

Fritz nearly runs over someone in the hallway as he flees. He mutters an apology, because that’s what decent people do. The person grips his upper arm.

It’s Francesco, who has a bottle of wine and a concerned expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Let me go.”

“What’d he do?”

“Let me go.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.” It’s not really home, but nothing is, so it doesn’t matter. 

“In this weather? At this hour? Without your suitcase or a raincoat?”

“WHERE ELSE CAN I GO?” Fritz shrieks

Francesco doesn’t flinch. “I was going to share this with you and Voltaire, but clearly he doesn’t deserve any. Come to my room. Please.”

This is how Fritz finds himself sniffling on the shoulder of someone he’s known for less than a day. They’re sitting on the edge of the one bed in Francesco’s room. Francesco murmurs things in Italian that sound nice, until he’s calm enough for Francesco to properly talk to him. “For such a witty man, he’s terribly tactless. He often laughs when he’s surprised.”

“I should’ve known better,” Fritz whispers. He accepts the cocktail napkin Francesco’s managed to find in one of his pockets. He hasn't outright sobbed, but he still needs to blow his nose. 

“I used to think he wanted to sleep with me, just me, too. He falls in love with minds, but he can’t have sex without a woman there. And Émilie isn’t here, so…”

“Wait, you had sex with him and Émilie?”

Francesco blushes. “Let’s not focus on that. I think it’s counterproductive. I was more there for her, frankly. I’m bisexual, fifty-fifty, if you’re wondering.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want some wine? I have glasses. And also wine glasses.”

It’s the weakest pun Fritz has heard in at least two years, but he smiles.

He ends up sleeping in Francesco’s room, and wakes tangled up with him in more ways than one. They didn’t drink enough wine for him to doubt his memory. They hadn’t even kissed, much less anything more physical. 

He says this to Francesco as Francesco is shaving and Fritz has just used an extra toothbrush the hotel had provided (Francesco brought his own from home).

"Of course I wouldn't make a move, you were upset," Francesco says, finishing with one last smooth swipe.

"I..." Fritz clears his throat. "So you would have made a move if I wasn't upset?"

"Hell yes."

Fritz worries for a moment that he might simply be rebounding, but he's almost certain he would have fallen anyway, and he doesn't care all that much either way. "I'm not upset now."

Francesco hums thoughtfully and puts away the razor. "I always bring condoms to symposiums." That really shouldn't sound seductive, yet it does. 

***

"Damn Italians."

"Specifically, Venetians."

"Even wor-DO THAT AGAIN."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Did I getcha? Did I getcha good?
> 
> \- My favorite sentence in absolutely all the Wikipedia reading I've done for the sake of this AU:  
> “[Algarotti] became embroiled in a lively bisexual love-triangle with the politician John Hervey, and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.” As in, the other two were fighting for his affection. Also both those people are super interesting and I must do something with them.
> 
> \- In general, Frederick the Great and Voltaire were really happy pen pals but not good at long-term IRL friendship. Luckily, the makeup letters worked out. 
> 
> \- Voltaire and Rousseau strike me as the Hamilton and Jefferson of Age of Enlightenment philosophical thought. 
> 
> \- In Sharps Hour, I had a throwaway line during The Intersectionality Drinking Game where Franklin self-identified as "Polynesian", for no reason other than me trying to have as many of the ethnic groups that make up this country as I can appear in this AU. Also I can imagine it for him, for some reason. 
> 
> \- Strangely adorable fact: at Cambridge, Babbage was in a club where they came up with plans for if somehow any of them were sent to an insane asylum at any point in their lives, the rest of them would rescue him.
> 
> \- Hilarious fact: Babbage tried to get street music and hoop-rolling games banned, and he carefully counted over a hundred broken windows in an abandoned building and determined how many were broken from vandalism, so he could complain about it.
> 
> \- I have mentioned that I don't like how a lot of stories with heavy m/m emphasis have little to no female presence. I'm trying to have at least one woman in every chapter. And I haven't seen Ada nearly enough around here. She's wearing a shirt from the wonderful webcomic xkcd, by the way. 
> 
> \- Mary Somerset -> physicist, one of Ada, Countess of Lovelace's tutors, part of Operation Make Ada Not Like Her Dad.
> 
> \- I gave my girlfriend at the time a Rubik's dodecahedron, and she was thrilled because it took her a WHOLE WEEK to solve it the first time, and afterwards she started using it to soothe herself when she was upset.


	8. Francesco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's weird being suppressed-hypomanic and sad at the same time. Fic makes it better.
> 
> Disturbing dream imagery coming up.

_ “You provided much more detail telling me about that day than you were telling me about entire decades of your life.” Angelica stopped taking notes after their first session. She just watches and listens. _

_ “He made me like a giddy teenager.” Fritz smiles dryly, perhaps even wryly. “We both know what happened when I was a giddy teenager. Voltaire apologized for his insensitivity, I forgave him, but I switched rooms anyway. I got a car and started seeing Francesco whenever I could. But my dreams got worse as my days go better.” _

_ “What did you tell him you do for a living?” _

_ “Same as my cover story in general. Retired special ops, details upon request. They rarely are requested. He told me his family had been art dealers for generations, which sounded like something that might occur in Venice, but he had left the business to his older brother and chosen a different path.” _

_ “You look depressed by this.” _

_ “Well…” _

_ *** _

During the summer break, Francesco invites Fritz to travel around the country with him. Fritz has never been simply a tourist before. Fifty years old and never traveled for pleasure, other than quick trips to see Mina. Even pleasant trips had some sort of aim.

As the fall semester at William and Mary begins and Francesco can’t get away from his responsibilities, Friedrich is coincidentally having more and more trouble with his tics. His medications aren’t doing what they need to be. The physical tics are the worst. He also has a terrible fight with Pointiere and chases him off. 

Friedrich’s tic-heavy story is that when he first arrived in America, through a convoluted series of events he ended up rescuing a troop of Boy Scouts and their scoutmaster from a massive snowstorm. The scoutmaster turned out to actually be a psychiatrist who worked at a place called Vernon, meant for temporary inpatient stays of 2-4 weeks. They help with certain neurological issues as well as psychiatric ones. Doctor George Washington had a sufficiently high estimate of Friedrich’s character after the incident that Friedrich felt safe inquiring about therapists’ likelihood of reporting criminal confessions (though not in those words). Mr. 15 had the place checked out.

Fritz watches Friedrich’s house and looks after Azor while Friedrich is away. Upon return, Friedrich is under better control and in a far better mood, and also rhapsodizing about a fellow Tourette’s patient he has become utterly smitten with.

“How old?”

Friedrich tries to hide behind his knitting. He’s knitting a hat for his new paramour. Out of premium New Zealand angora rabbit fur, sheared off fluffy live rabbits like with sheep. Because Pierre would be sad to think of dead rabbits, apparently. “Adult.”

“How old?”

“Um. Nineteen.”

“What the hell, von Steuben. Next you’re going to tell me he’s very mature for his age.”

“It’s only a twenty-year gap. Not like it’s thirty.”

“Francesco’s invited me to move in with him. Perhaps it’s best, so I don’t dislocate my eyes constantly rolling them at you.”

“COUNT - sounds like a good idea, actually. He makes you more...vivid. You have my blessing. Careful with those eye-rolls.”

***

Williamsburg is beautiful in October when he moves in. They go walking together in the normal city, on the campus, and in Colonial Williamsburg, being gently amused by all the breeches and carriages. Francesco grades papers and does research and Fritz proofreads, or brings him tea. Fritz goes to the library and reads things he’d never had time for. He watches student productions, particularly if they contain Francesco’s students. He practices his flute more regularly, learning music Mina wrote and sent to him, handwritten on sheets. 

He dreams of his father, the executioner, and the gun, but the victim is only Hans most of the time. Not all of the time.

One iteration he has of the recurring nightmare is this: the one being killed is Mina, the one forced to watch is Francesco, the one doing the killing is Sophia, and he is the one who orders it. 

Another iteration: the one being killed is Francesco, the one forced to watch is Fritz, the one doing the killing is Friedrich, and Hans is the one who orders it.

Another: the one being killed is Sophia, the one forced to watch is Mina, the one doing the killing is himself, and his father is the one who orders it.

Another: He kills everyone he has ever killed, in a grotesque loop, except they are all posed like Hans was, and the room is that room. 

Another: he is everyone.

Another: he is nobody, and if he says the right thing, he can stop it all, but he doesn’t remember the words, and so the gunshot rings and he sees himself faint, he runs to himself and tries to shake himself awake. If he wakes up maybe he’ll see what they did to the body.

Or, when his mind isn’t being creative, it just replays the real memory. That’s the worst. 

Francesco makes love to him until he’s sweaty and blissful and nearly blank. Francesco winds around him and has more brilliance in his drowsy murmurs than most have in rehearsed speeches. Francesco suggests bubble baths, warm milk, massages, soft music, more exercise, less light at night, eating earlier in the evening (despite his Mediterranean soul abhorring the concept), but Fritz dreads sleep, and because he dreads sleep he fights it. 

It’s not one-sided. It’s Fritz who notices the disturbing depth of Francesco’s cough whenever it’s chilly or he gets the slightest bit out of breath, and urges him to see a doctor. It turns out that Francesco has latent tuberculosis from travels years ago, and that now he’s getting older and has a weaker immune system, it wants to claim him. A course of medicine will clear it out of his system. Fritz is very careful and makes sure Francesco takes every dose on time. Fritz hasn’t been infected, but that’s not the point. He will not lose what he has gained. 

Then he nearly does.

***

Fritz is tidying up around the house - he has more than enough money to pull his own weight financially, but since he doesn’t have a regular job it’s only fair - when he finds Francesco’s family photo albums. He wonders why Francesco keeps them in an obscure part of his many bookcases. Perhaps he mourns some of the people in them. 

He leafs through them and enjoys the old snapshots of a childhood amongst canals. Then he sees a photograph of the extended family. He drops the book.

Francesco comes in a few minutes later. Without planning to, on pure instinct, Fritz tackles him, pressing him against the floor with an arm twisted behind his back. 

“Has this been a trap all along?” he snarls, more like a wounded animal than a predatory one. “Or are you just playing with me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I saw the picture! At least half your family, I recognized by sight as Mafia! You’ve been lying to me.” The idea that one of the lies may have been  _ Ti amo  _ makes his voice quaver in an unhelpful manner.

“I have never told you a single lie. They are indeed art dealers. They deal in forged art. Stolen art. But I didn’t want that life.”

“How very convenient that you should come across my way, and figure out everything I needed, make me think I was wanted, that I, just so that you could, I’m so stupid thinking that someone might actually…” Fritz suddenly can’t breathe, and his vision is swimming, and he sees Hans knocked out by the men who caught them at the airport, when they were in sight of the gate. When they thought they were free. 

Suddenly Francesco is holding him, which is absurd and can’t be right at all. “I had wondered if you might have been  _ that _ Frederick, who is supposed to be dead. My brother keeps the crime from me but passes along big news. Shh, I have never lied to you,  _ il mio amore,  _ never have, never will. I care where you are, not where you started. Hate the sin, love the sinner. We’re both striving for better, are we not? Breathe, my dear, I’m the one who’s supposed to have the bad lungs.”

When Fritz is calmer, he says quietly, “In, um, in the interest of balance, I have a sister. She’s a composer and conductor. Not any sort of weaponized or illicit conducting, though.”

Francesco scoots away so they’re leaning against each other equally instead of him supporting all of Fritz’s weight. “Oh?”

“She has a daughter who I’ve never met in person. Not safe for us to be seen together. But you’re the only person I’ve cried in front of except for Mina - Wilhelmine, I call her Mina. Well, the only person alive.”

Fritz ends up telling him about Hans. Again, he’s the only person other than Mina to know. It’s a show of trust. It’s the best way Fritz can think of to apologize for doubting. 

“I think you need real help,” Francesco says when they’re both sufficiently pulled-together for a simple dinner.

Fritz is buttering his bread with excruciating slowness. He is very tired. “Most likely,  _ Liebling _ .”

***

_ “I was aware that Voltaire came here shortly after Friedrich, but one story at a time, right?” _

_ “Right.” _

_ “Martha the Tech, as everyone seems to call her, says we will have a Halloween party. Will that mean Sharps Hour will be canceled?” _

_ “I doubt it, why?” _

_ “I want to ask permission to play something Mina arranged. A Halloween ‘mashup’ from films. Thank you for letting me have unusually long and frequent sessions, by the way.” _

_ “They seem pretty important in your case. I wish you hadn’t waited a whole additional year after the incident you just described.” _

_ “I needed something worse.” _  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Algarotti's father and uncle were art dealers, and his older brother followed in their footsteps. He went abroad FOR SCIENCE.
> 
> A reminder that the age difference between historical von Steuben and du Ponceau was 30 years, but I made it 20 because I wasn't confident in my ability to write such a huge gap, nor everyone's reactions to it. I'm glad I did, because then I would have had to make Fritz a decade older and that wouldn't have worked for me plot wise. I still want him to have a lot of life to live.
> 
> In my great tradition, I have introduced Francesco around the time his real counterpart died: tuberculosis, age 51. Frederick the Great was no longer his lover, but he contributed to the monument built to Algarotti's memory (he wasn't the only one; everybody loved this guy). If I were being strictly accurate, Voltaire and Emilie would be the same age as them, but I've made them a little younger for plot reasons. Let's put them at Friedrich's age instead.


	9. Mina and Sophia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody dies, I promise.
> 
> There's a little suicidal ideation, reference to disordered eating, and self-harm, along with more of the summarized trauma we all know and love. With a sprinkle of comic relief.
> 
> Emetophobes, there's a throwaway line.

  
" _I don't need to describe the details of Voltaire's breakdown. You know them. I want to tell you about the first time I visited while he was here, because that leads into how I ended up coming here."_

***

"So you came here on Franklin's recommendation?" Fritz asks. They're sitting in the common room of the Men's First Floor Ward, meant for short-term adult male patients, possibly of mild to moderate danger to themselves but not to anyone else. Fritz got lost on the way here and arrived twenty minutes before the allotted visiting time ends, some of which was eaten up by security measures and more still by coaxing Voltaire into conversation. Most visitors have left, since it's getting dark, and most of the patients wandered over to their rooms to bide their time. Voltaire has accepted Fritz's apologies. He doesn't seem resentful, just twitchy, and speaks entirely in French.

"I told you in my letter."

"Your sentences bordered on senseless, and you were paranoid in every paragraph about how I'd perceive you. Without ever telling me what it is that's made you unable to cope with day-to-day existence. Or write legibly. Or in a straight line." In fact at one point the sentences turned into a spiral towards the center of the page. Despite the dramatic reduction in coherence, the letter was longer than most of Voltaire's already-hefty missives.

Voltaire glances over to the trio of young men occupying the large couch not far away, and Fritz's eyes follow. One is gently massaging another's right shoulder while talking about how "shipping Bly-land" gives him "all the feels". The third, who appears to be trying to cuddle both the others at once without falling off the couch, says in English but with a strong French accent, "Pierre nearly wept trying to summarize a modern AU fic in which Bly works for Cracked and Bisland works for The Oatmeal and they meet in the comments section of a Buzzfeed article."

"That's an actual Marquis, and he knows everybody," Voltaire whispers.

"Interesting, but..."

Voltaire rubs his face with his hands for a moment. He leans in, and in an ashamed hush tells him, "I need to tell you face-to-face, when I can see immediately if you're disgusted by me or not. I met my niece. Adult. Adult niece. And I fell in love with her. Not as in loved her deeply, but as in I realized that I want to go to bed with my sister's daughter. Consequently, I also somewhat want to die."

Meanwhile, a twentysomething in scrubs with a long-sleeved shirt underneath approaches the couch and clears her throat. "Lafayette, you need to wrap it up five minutes ago. I'm giving Voltaire's friend a few extra minutes because he got here so late."

Lafayette - the Marquis - pouts. "You do not understand my love for John!"

"What about your love for Alexander?" John asks, speaking and smiling for the first time.

"That's more comprehensible. Martha the Tech doesn't know you well yet."

"You'd be surprised," Martha says, and beckons. She then briefly smiles at Fritz.

"Don't judge me," Voltaire whispers when she's busy corralling the trio.

"I've done many and much more terrible things, not just wanted to, and I carry on," Fritz tells him, hoping these are comforting words.

Voltaire gets up, clearly wanting to end the conversation. "I don't want my niece to get hurt."

***

A year passes. Fritz carries on. Every so often, Francesco suggests that Fritz get help, but doesn't demand it. Fritz parries on.

Then Elisabeth calls.

Mina and Sophia's house was burned down, while they weren't home, thank God. Mina received a note. Someone knows Mina is his sister, but thinks he's dead and that she has all his money, and perhaps some of his secrets. The house was a show of force so that more dire threats will be taken seriously. It was made to look like an accident.

Elisabeth helps coordinate their escape. Fritz's wish to see them is going to be fulfilled in a way he very much didn't want.

***

Mina and Sophia land in New York City rather than near DC for three reasons. There happened to be a flight to there sooner. It will help throw off any pursuers. And if Francesco picks them up, the NYC Mafia that has ties to back in Italy will, as usual, indulge Bonomo Algarotti's request to discreetly make sure his younger brother is completely safe the entire time he's in their "jurisdiction". Along with anyone traveling with him. "Safe" includes not being tailed by suspicious characters.

"Being the 'art dealers' isn't that badass, but the Algarottis have been bringing in consistent high profits for generations," Francesco explains. "Besides, it's not hard for them. I don't even go there much. And it's in their best interest that I myself not get targeted for questioning or leverage."

Fritz desperately wants to go with him, but he still won't trust himself, or even Friedrich, to be seen with them until the trail is colder. Francesco stays with Voltaire overnight so he can pick their guests up bright and early. He's also been wanting to check on Voltaire anyway. Voltaire's recovered from his breakdown and is directing a play that he wrote - only slightly off-Broadway with the potential to move there - but he's a complicated man with a puzzle box of issues that go beyond the one that brought him low.

Fritz doesn't want to talk about how he felt while he waited.

***

There's a lot of hugging and crying. Somehow Sophia is twelve years old. Mina had practically given up on conceiving before menopause - it had been a strain on her marriage, even - then at age forty-one, the miracle.

They'd stopped the video calls when Fritz "died", though Sophia has always known the truth. She also knows her uncle is a criminal, though Mina has done an amazing job packaging that information in a way that simultaneously discourages Sophia from thinking that's fine, yet also makes her believe that her uncle loves her and isn't evil.

It's astounding how much a year and a half changes a child. She's tall to the point of gangly. She says, "Hello, Uncle," in a voice drained of all energy when he hugs her. She squeezes back with her arms, though.

***

Francesco had made sure to stop for food along the way, so this is Mina's agenda:

1\. Tearful reunion  
2\. Shower  
3\. Some sleep  
4\. More food  
5\. Reading a light, happy book while leaning against her brother  
6\. More sleep  
7\. Food  
8\. Catching up  
9\. Yoga - Francesco has a mat he never uses  
10\. Start looking for work and a new home (no, she doesn't want to rest, she wants to not feel helpless)

Sophia doesn't declare an agenda, but this is what it would have looked like if she had planned everything, which everyone hopes she didn't:  
1\. Hug Uncle Fritz  
2\. Shower  
3\. Stare at the ceiling while lying in the bed her uncle ran out and bought, then assembled, just for her, listening to her mother snore  
4\. Take two bites of food and then just move it around, then ask to be excused  
5\. Request to be allowed to watch movies and TV with American kids in them so that she can talk and act like them, so she won't be teased in whatever school she goes to  
6\. Fall asleep forty minutes after being granted Francesco's Netflix password and being informed that Hannah Montana is not a reliable primary source (Glee isn't 100% reliable either, even allowing for the musical conceit, but it's tolerable background noise for the adults and has more diversity)  
7\. Be carried to bed, wake up crying at an early hour, sneak into the kitchen, eat half a tub of ice cream, then throw up  
8\. Clean it up herself, which Uncle Fritz walks in on  
9\. After a painful conversation, go for a sunrise walk with him in a really pretty neighborhood, and pet someone else's puppy  
10\. Sleep for real

This is what Fritz does after going for a walk with Sophia:  
1\. Have a conversation with sleepy Francesco that involves him telling Fritz to concentrate on helping his loved ones, not tracking down the people who hurt them. "The blood we shed begins an endless cycle of vengeance and death with no defendants. Stop the cycle. Trust Elisabeth to make a good decision about what to do next and to carry it out."  
2\. Go to wash his face  
3\. See his father in the mirror  
4\. Punch the mirror  
5\. Bleed  
6\. "Yes. Fine. I need help. Yes. Make the phone call. Yes. Fine. Don't let them see. I'm sorry. No, it's fine. I suppose that is glass, yes, but the emergency room is uncalled for. I can talk you through the first aid if you don't know. Okay, Vernon. Fine."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- After Emilie died in childbirth at the age of 41 (not with Voltaire's child; they'd amicably parted ways after 16 years together), Voltaire lived with his niece Marie Louise Mignot In 1957, some letters of his to his niece were discovered, revealing that at least at some point before they moved in together, he'd been sexually attracted to her. She was an adult at the time. What they actually *did* is not known. Whatever it was, there's every indication it would have consensual and mutual, and they didn't have children together or anything. Still kinda icky. (I am not kinkshaming fic or roleplay.) I needed something for my Voltaire to have a breakdown about, and I thought him having a different perspective on this whole thing would fit the bill.
> 
> \- Hypergraphia doesn't just mean writing a lot, and there are all sorts of strange variations.
> 
> \- Don't be so awed by a Marquis, Voltaire, your irl partner's husband was one!
> 
> \- The real Wilhelmine had all her children earlier, but I needed Sophia to be young for this. Her having Sophia at age 41 is symbolic. See above. 
> 
> \- Sophia's going to get better, and one of the reasons she agrees to do therapy is that she sees it help her uncle. She'll find her feet.
> 
> \- Now we're all caught up! Where do we go from here? Stay tuned.


	10. Martha (the Tech)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I mentioned in Three Days Already that the Halloween party included watching The Nightmare Before Christmas, I didn't have the events of this chapter in mind. It was a helpful coincidence once I thought about what actually happens in the movie.
> 
> If the lyrics are wrong, it's because I quoted them from memory, which I think works here as part of recalling them in therapy. 
> 
> Here be implied past child abuse, and referenced strangulation (in self-defense).

" _Angelica, is Martha the Tech okay? She didn't come to work yesterday evening."_

_"She's fine. Just helping out with a family matter, I was told. You seem to have become attached to her." Angelica doesn't sound critical, but there is a hint of concern in her voice. Fritz imagines that attached patients are not always such a harmless phenomenon._

_"It's just - it's two things. I realize this may be disconcerting, but even though I haven't been actively involved with his projects, and ESPECIALLY since he and Friedrich have had their final falling out, Mr. 15 has obtained basic biographical data on everyone who'd interact with us here. To make sure anything we say about him doe_ sn't _come back to bite him. It really is basic, I promise. He and I know your qualifications, that you're law-abiding, that your husband is so ordinary that it loops around to being impressive, your father and sisters work here and what their jobs are, and you are a parent. That's it."_

_Fritz does not and will not tell Angelica that the achingly honorable current Marquis de Lafayette would find his life far more complicated if the public knew the extent to which the Lafayette family fortune comes from his predecessors collaborating with the French Numbers. His father had died fulfilling an obligation to them, in fact. Fritz felt slightly guilty, but Mr. 15 has at least required only legal favors from the young man. Lafayette was willing enough to help "Louis Bourbon" after a car accident nearly decapitated him and also messed up his head in less concrete ways. Mr. 15 feared that getting involved himself might have made someone realize Bourbon was really Mr. 16, originally in the country on business._

_Voltaire was right. Lafayette knows everybody. He'd even been a witness at a trial where many of the other witnesses were Vernon staff_ _and had been cross-examined, revealing much. No hacking or infiltration required. Lafayette had been more reluctant to discuss some people than others, apparently, but Mr. 15 told Fritz he'd reminded Lafayette of how mild this level of blackmail was and how it could get considerably worse._

_(Learning that Mr. 15 did, on occasion, blackmail Lafayette was the last straw for Friedrich.)_

_Angelica raises an eyebrow, but otherwise makes no comment._

_Fidgeting in his seat, Fritz continues, "Anyway, I know Martha 'the Tech' Laurens has little to no contact with almost all her family, but she lives with her brother, who was once a patient here. That is all. Yet it endeared her to me. I think you can see why."_

_"A sister caring for her troubled brother."_

_"Yes. I think that's why I talked to her on Halloween, rather than pushing her away..."_

***

Fritz's Halloween medley, arranged by Mina, is well received. His right hand still has visible stitches and aches slightly. He feels a bit better, though. His last session with Angelica was painful but productive. He beat Robert at Scrabble last Social Hour because the man is not very good at spelling Standard American English. Petty as that is, it felt nice to win something. There's candy. He's discovered that he likes Nerds. Francesco will inevitably joke about knowing this all along.

Sophia has not been allowed to visit, even if Fritz wanted her to see him in this state. No children under the age of thirteen are allowed to visit except under special circumstances. They might be disruptive or indiscreet. He knows from Francesco's visit, though, that he got her a costume of Rey from Star Wars and is taking her for her very first American trick-or-treating. Fritz is so sure that he doesn't deserve than man that he idly wonders if this is proof there's an afterlife and Hans is pulling strings somewhere for him.

He is therefore feeling fairly mellow when Martha, who is often called Martha the Tech to avoid confusion with other Marthas (and by this point as a bit of an in-joke), announces the optional movie viewing.

She spreads several DVDs out the table, alone with a sheet of paper listing "trigger warnings" for each one. "Now, none of these are horror movies, just thematic spooky movies considered family-friendly. That said, I want you to not be ashamed to vote against a movie that you think will, or even might, trigger you. Okay? Nobody has to say why they're voting against a movie. We have had guys get upset over, say, Finding Nemo, and that's fine. You can leave the room for any reason at any time. You can choose not to watch at all. See, Hocus Pocus has offscreen but plot-important child death, so you might not want to watch it for that. Or you might not like Sarah Jessica Parker. Both are valid."

Fritz appreciates the intention behind her spiel but wonders if it might be a tad excessive. The group narrows it down to The Nightmare Before Christmas.

The opening song has nice chords, and he's charmed by the stop-motion animation. Maybe Sophia will like this.

Then the second song comes. The skeleton man is being introspective, alone except for his ghost dog. Martha turned the captions on, so he can see the lyrics plain and clear.

_Yet year after year it's the same routine_  
And I grow so weary of the sound of screams  
And I, Jack, the Pumpkin King  
Have grown so tired of the same old thing...

He finds his throat tightening. This is ridiculous. It's a children's film.

Jack Skellington goes on, singing about how great he is at inspiring fear, how he's known everywhere for his ability to terrify children. And how nobody suspects:

... _That the Pumpkin King with the skeleton grin_  
Would tire of his crown - if they only understood,  
He'd give it all up if he only could.  
Oh, there's an empty place in my bones  
That calls out for something unknown  
The fame and praise, come year after year,  
Does nothing for these empty tears...

He needs to leave this room.

***

Martha finds him on the porch. The dark, chilly porch. She clears her throat. "If you really want to be alone, I'll respect that, but in case you want to talk to someone..."

Fritz wants Mina, but Mina isn't here, and he can't help but imagine the struggle Martha must have to help her brother. The love that takes. "Sit. Please."

She shrugs on a light fleece jacket over her scrubs. "Did you not like the movie, or did something hit too close to home? No need to be embarrassed."

"It's stupid."

"My brother says that almost every time he gets upset, because he's a guy and guys are trained to think it's stupid almost every time they get upset, except maybe if it's manly anger. You know what? It never is, especially not when I find the roots."

"Kid's movies, though?"

"I can't watch Beauty and the Beast these days. The animated Disney one."

"Why?"

"You really want to know? For all I know, it might trigger you too."

"I've seen Beauty and the Beast." On an airplane, when he wanted something simple to soothe his nerves after strangling someone who'd been sent to kill him, six hours earlier.

She sits. "Because her father tells her it's fine to go against the grain and be different. He accepts and loves her unconditionally."

It must be the combination of how she sums that aspect of the story up, in a way he'd never considered, and how fragile he is already. He starts shaking.

"Fritz. What do you need?"

He likes that Martha doesn't ask if he's okay when it's clear he isn't. He takes a shuddering breath. "My, my father, he was a - he lived a harsh life, and had a harsh job, and was a harsh man. I was to follow in his footsteps. No other option. You understand? If I deviated from that path, from the mold I was cast in, in any way, he showed his displeasure. The worst thing I did, in his eyes, was when I fell in love. I was eighteen. My father made me watch my boyfriend take a bullet to the head."

"Oh my god," Martha whispers.

Fritz can't stop. His words are tumbling down a precipice and all he can do is roll after. "He never was punished. I was too afraid to report it."

"It's not your fault. In an abusive situation, you're outgunned and outmanned, so you have to outrun and outlast."

He gives her a partial smile for that kindness. "I hated him more than I have hated anything in my entire life. Still. I am fifty-one years old and I have seen hateworthy things by the score and I have never hated anything more than that man. But I went into his line of work. I not only did, but I did everything even better than he had. I did other things too, but that's not what people knew me for. That wasn't my specialty. I lived that harsh life and did those harsh things until I realized that I..."

The Potomac river is not far from here. He thinks he can see lights reflect off it.

Martha seems uncertain whether to prompt him, let him be, or take this in another direction.

"I realized I hated it, what I was doing. I retired. I changed my life around. But I don't feel like it's left me. I feel it clinging to me. I thought I gave it all up, but have I? Can I? What else can I do?Where could a skeleton man go? The real world has no place for him. I looked in the mirror and I looked like my father, so I smashed the mirror. I didn't make a sound when they took the shards out. The beatings were shorter if I didn't make a sound."

The words land. He is quiet.

"Give me less than thirty seconds," Martha says. She returns in less than ten seconds, carrying a blanket. She drapes it over his shoulders, and he understands her intent and wraps it around himself the rest of the way.

"Thank you." Then he is quiet.

After a moment, she says, "If you watch to the end of the film, yeah, he realizes that it's hard for him to do something else. That part is true. So he starts a relationship with someone who loves him the way he is, but loves him for him, not for the role he plays in, uh, making Halloween happen. And he takes his skills and resolves to embrace them while improving what he does. Making it better. 'And by God, I'm going to give it all my might/There's still time to make things right.'"

It's difficult to respond to the serious, heartfelt part of what she's just said. At least right now. He takes the easy way out. "Did you recite that from memory?"

Martha presses her palm to her forehead. "I appear to have just given the dorkiest pep talk in the history of Western civilization. Archaeologists have recently discovered a dorkier one written on Chinese oracle bones."

"Good sisters do things like that." It's now safe to mention her having a brother. She brought it up first.

"Do you have one?"

"She's visiting next time there are visiting hours..."

Then Nurse Betsy Ross invites them back inside for some hot cider. Martha and her both get him talking about Mina and Francesco, then Betsy has to go attend to the others some more. Martha sits with him at the dining table.

Fritz hasn't said anything about Sophia. He sips the cider. Apparently a nurse named Eliza, sister to Angelica, sent it over from Adolescents' First Floor Ward when there turned out to be too much. To Women's First Floor as well, of course. Second Floor patients are only allowed hot beverages under controlled circumstances. Betsy told him that Halloween was a bigger deal for the adolescents. Which makes sense.

He can indirectly discuss his quandary. "Do you have any advice for when you yourself are in a bad emotional place, but you love someone who is doing as badly, or worse?"

"Do what you can, but ultimately, get yourself straightened out. You'll be in a better position to help. Also, it sets a good example to the other person. It sounds like you didn't get much of a chance to take care of yourself, before."

"No."

"That's one of the reasons people come here. To learn." She raises her foam cup.

He mimes clinking it. "Here's to learning."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- One of the things that Lafayette got flak about during the French Revolution is that because of the terms and conditions of being the Marquis de Lafayette, there was an extent to which he had serious obligations to protect the royal family. No matter however he might have felt about the institution of monarchy. Awkward.
> 
> \- In my head, the guy who got triggered by Finding Nemo was my version of Thomas Jefferson, because at the part of the beginning where Nemo's mother dies and Nemo's the only egg that survives.
> 
> \- Real Mount Vernon is so close to the Potomac that I've moved Vernon Psych further away from it, because it wouldn't make sense for a psych ward to be within crawling distance from a river.
> 
> \- look, coffeecrowns, I wrapped someone in a blanket for you.


	11. I've Met People Like Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's ok if you haven't read Tomorrow and Tomorrow, but if you have, the last three sections are related to it. Mild spoilers for Three Days Already.
> 
> Thank you for coming along on another wild ride! There's gonna be at least one plotty story focusing on this fic's set of characters that will not be part of the Time Out of Mind series, only Our Agency. So you may want to subscribe to Our Agency separately. I plan to finish Tomorrow and Tomorrow first, though.

1\. Sophia

Mutti isn't the best at explaining things right now. Instead, Uncle Francesco gives Sophia a leaflet on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's written for kids whose parental figures have it, and the English is easy. He says he's very glad that Uncle Fritz is going to see doctors about it. He says it's possible to see doctors about it while living your normal life at the same time, but not when you put it off for years and years. In a month, maybe less, Uncle Fritz will feel better enough to come home and see a therapist as part of his new routine.

"I realize it might not feel like it, but you coming here has been a big help, all right? It made him stop putting it off. He wants to set a healthy example."

Uncle Francesco isn't lying. Sophia can tell when adults lie, like when her father used to say he wasn't upset. But she knows Uncle Fritz is also at Vernon because all the hurt in him was so heavy that seeing them hurt, too, broke the lie that he'd been living. And broke a mirror.

Sophia knows her uncle has done bad things, but that you love family who love you. She knows he's sorry and feels guilty. She knows some of the bad things he did, and a lot of the hurt, were from his father being cruel to him. Mutti told her that last one so Sophia understood not to tell Uncle Fritz when her own father hurt her feelings, because he would overreact. It's hard for Uncle Fritz to remember that Sophia getting yelled at a little, in the past before the divorce, is different from him getting yelled at a lot and hit a lot for years and years.

While Uncle Fritz is away and Mutti is looking for a job and a place to live - and also papers that will let them stay permanently, not just visit the country - Uncle Francesco does his best to make sure Sophia isn't forgotten. He has work, but there's some flexibility about where he can be when not teaching. She doesn't want to sit at the house moping, so he invites her to the library and the park, and tells her about plays and concerts the William & Mary students do and goes with her if she wants to go. The campus is safe enough for her to wander around waiting for him, or pulling up in her chair and gawk at the students in the cafe, just to hear them talk. Learn the accent and the slang. They go to Colonial Williamsburg one Saturday. She watches craftspeople in costume spin thread and make candles. He brings her along when grocery shopping and lets her choose up to two unfamiliar breakfast cereals at a time until at least one of the boxes is finished. He takes her and Mutti to buy winter clothes, and just her to get a Halloween costume when she's interested. She gets a Rey costume. He stays far enough away when she rings doorbells that she doesn't feel like a baby.

She cries when she's alone, sometimes, but she knows Mutti does too.

One day Uncle Fritz comes home. She's been waiting near the frontmost window, rereading The Hunger Games, but this time in English. She opens the door for him and Uncle Francesco.

Uncle Fritz looks tired, but his smile doesn't look like a lie. He puts down his bag and hugs her. "Have you been a good girl?"

"I think so. Mu- Mom's on the phone with someone who might help her. Mom says that when we move into our new place I'm gonna have a tutor to help me catch up so that next fall I can go to American school and know what they expect me to know, because the curriculum will be different. And she'll make sure that I can get an IB diploma so if I want to - if I want to go back to the EU for university, I can have the IB diploma and transfer easily. Because some American schools have the IB diploma now."

"The International Baccalaureate was a major topic of discussion over dinner last night," Uncle Francesco explains, sounding like he wants to laugh but is too nice to.

"An extremely good girl, then," Uncle Fritz says in German, stepping back.

In the same language, she says, "I asked them to keep all the parts of the mirror you broke."

He goes still. "Why?"

"It's seven years' bad luck when you break a mirror, right? So you need to fix the mirror. I went to Home Depot with Uncle Francesco and asked the lady what glue you should use and what gloves to wear when you do it. After you've rested. Then it'll all be okay. You can put the mirror somewhere else if you don't want to look at it all the time, but you should probably keep it. I think it won't work if you fix it but don't keep it."

Uncle Francesco kisses Uncle Fritz on the cheek and then turns to Sophia. "What are you saying to him? I need to know so I can say it whenever he looks gloomy."

"She's saying what I didn't know I needed to hear."

***

2\. Reinette

She wants to thank him for acting as a mediator between Friedrich von Steuben and Mr. 15 when it came to sparing Chev the ordeal of testifying against their kidnappers. No matter how much Friedrich loved Pierre, and therefore would help someone Pierre loved, direct interaction with Mr. 15 would have been ugly and wasted time.

She also wants to thank him for being friendly and accommodating to Marie while she was working for Friedrich. Marie's new job is sitting in the archives of a big library digitizing the old microfiche articles, and her boss understands how to get her attention, how to remind her it's lunchtime, exactly how much the bathroom door should be open, and other parts of what Marie calls "the etiquette". Friedrich had understood these things, too, and Fritz had learned them instead of being the alarming houseguest Marie had feared.

But she is Jeanne Antoinette Poisson, Reinette to her friends, and Madame Persuasive at work. Madame Persuasive reveals truths slowly. She'll keep all her truths close to her chest, she'll wait and see which way the wind will blow.

She puts on the voice she uses for work-related phone calls. It's not precisely the same as her standard. When she graduates in a few months and starts working full-time, she'll probably cultivate a few other voices too, perhaps even accents or cadences.

"Hello, Mr. von Katte? Are you able to speak freely? I'm calling on the behalf of my employer, with whom you were recently in contact regarding a friend of a friend who was trapped in a room - yes."

He is understandably wary. "He didn't say he would consider this a debt."

"You don't owe him anything further, but he would like to ask something of you. Simple and not... controversial. In fact, you'll benefit from making a connection of a type you are unlikely to have made before. He'll benefit from bolstering his reputation."

"If I agree to meet with you in person, would you be willing to say things directly? I applaud your gift for euphemism, but have pity on an old non-native speaker. Who is also rather tired of your employer's love of obfustication."

Time to show one card. "My wife Marie and I are having a small holiday party. Would you like to arrive early? Perhaps when she's still at work?"

He laughs. "Are you telling me you're married to your boss' ex?"

"Newly married. Well, she wasn't allowed to tell anyone who her ex really was, and I wasn't allowed to tell anyone who my boss really was unless they were a designated confidante, which he said she couldn't be until we were married. Then he showed up at the courthouse right as we were exiting and said he genuinely was happy for us, and he was glad his loyalty experiment succeeded. I eventually stopped yelling at him."

"But you still work for him."

"He knew, which I didn't, actually, that this made perfect sense to Marie and didn't upset her at all. We were following the rules we agreed to follow, she says. He's a weirdly decent ex. Besides, someone needs to keep him in line. What do you say?"

"What's the dress code? I remember she's precise about that."

She finds herself fiercely hoping this man will be happy, no matter what he's done.

***

3\. Agent Armistead

Agent James Armistead settles into the slightly uneven chair on the other side of the coffee table. It's good to be assigned to Virginia again after his stint undercover as an usher at the Richard Rogers Theater. All sorts of people in that audience, from all sorts of places.

Though it had been nice to be able to get Lafayette those two Bly tickets just before Armistead left the state and Lafayette left the country. He felt like he owed the guy, after Lafayette's forthrightness about his family's long association with the French Numbers had made Armistead look good when considered for a promotion. When you're young and, let's face it, not the most popular race, a reputation for strong rapport with informants is a big help.

He's missed Virginia, though, and so had his wife, though he's pretty sure the baby was oblivious. It's poetic that one of the first things he's asked to do on return is talk to another informant, who also knows about the French Numbers, along with pretty much all the other major players out there.

They're in an anonymous hotel room. Von Katte - that's not his real name, but there's no need to agitate him by pressing the point - is turning his reading glasses case over and over in his hands. "I was told you're not going to be asking me what I've done, Agent Armistead."

"No, that's not priority, and it will continue to not be priority if you keep your nose clean on U.S. soil and we receive no extradition orders from elsewhere. That's what we can offer. From us, of course, we can't speak for the FBI and so on." Under some circumstances the CIA might try to get the FBI (and so on) to hold back, but that's interdepartmental politics beyond Armistead's paygrade. Or promise capability.

"What do you want to know about, then?"

"We currently have a tolerant relationship with the organization called Secrets of the Kin, aka Akin Secrets, aka The Temp Agency, aka The Talent Agency, aka The Agency. A significant degree of this tolerance comes from not considering 'Mr. 15' a threat. So first, I want to know what you know about him. To ease our minds. With the usual protection from retaliation, naturally."

"When we run out of that?"

"The more helpful you are to us, the more helpful we can be to you." Armistead notices the cuff of Von Katte's sweater slip down a little, revealing a friendship bracelet. A rainbow friendship bracelet, carefully braided, yet slightly wonky. Like kids learn how to do at summer camp. He makes a calculated move. "And the more people don't get caught in the crossfire."

"Oh, you're good," Von Katte says, as genuine praise. He begins.

***

4\. Pierre

Benjy's driving the car on the way to Williamsburg, partly because it's his car, and partly because Friedrich hasn't seen Pierre much during exam season and apparently has no choice but to spend the entire drive groping him. Benjy puts on instrumental Christmas music and amiably asks that they not distract him.

"Indulge me, little gecko. You'll be in Vietnam for an entire month, and nobody else will want to do this." This is true. Benjy's not a sub and there is almost no intersection between Pierre's kinks and (ugh) William North's kinks.

There's a hand over Pierre's mouth at present, but he smiles and gives a thumbs-up. He starts regretting this - in the pouty subby way, not real regret - when Friedrich just teases and teases and teases without getting anywhere.

"We're about twenty minutes away now," Benjy announces, in what is less than two hours and yet also more than thirty years later.

"Perhaps you should regain your - COLLOCATION - composure," Friedrich says, abruptly hands-off.

"Composure." Pierre would grumble more if he didn't know Friedrich's going to make it up to him later. Still. Evil. He diagrams a few syntactic trees in his head until he's fit for polite company. Friedrich hasn't outright said that his former boss Fritz, who helped grease the wheels of justice when it came to Chev's kidnappers, was also his lover, but Pierre heavily suspects it.

He becomes completely certain when he sees how Fritz looks at Benjy and Pierre as well as Friedrich, how Friedrich looks at Fritz, and most of all: how Fritz's partner Francesco looks at Friedrich. (This is becoming a male/male love Dr. Seuss book.)

He likes Francesco, not only because he seems to know everything about anything they bring up, but because he pours Pierre a glass of wine and raises an eyebrow at Benjy before Benjy's protest can actually exit his mouth. Benjy is a fuddy-duddy in the strangest ways. Pierre's turning twenty-one in June and they're in a private home. Though apparently Fritz's sister and niece are temporarily staying here after their house burned down; they're staying elsewhere tonight because they're checking out prospects in Maryland at the moment.

There comes an odd moment when Fritz asks Francesco where the new dog is, and Francesco says she's in the yard, and Fritz says it's too cold in the yard and to let her back in immediately, and Francesco says it's not that cold today and she's got a blanket-lined crate out there. Then suddenly Fritz mutters something in German. And Francesco replies in angry Italian. This goes back and forth. Then they go back to eating.

"I don't speak Italian," Fritz explains. "He doesn't speak German. So when we want to fight, we say everything in our native languages first. Then half an hour to an hour later, depending, we translate whatever we still sincerely mean into English."

Francesco wipes his mouth on a paper napkin. "There's often far less left. And I will go fetch the dog, not because I think you are right, but as a concession to your anxiety and Sophia's likely horror."

"What did he say?" Benjy asks Friedrich, indicating Fritz.

"It was really boring," Friedrich says.

Pierre is stuck sliding his pinky finger on the rim of his glass. At least here he's not worried about judgment. "I don't speak it, but German's like Legos, kinda. How the words build. Based on cognates and extrapolating from morphology, and also how old married couples argue, it was something about how Fritz has kept a lot more dogs over the years than anyone else here. Right?"

Fritz stares at Pierre. "I understand your enthusiasm about this boy, Friedrich."

Unsure of whether or how much to be offended, Pierre just goes back to eating. Later he manages to talk to Fritz alone for a second. Francesco is showing the others the handblown (mouthblown?) Venetian ornaments on their tree.

"Thank you for helping Chev," Pierre says, with blunt sincerity.

"It wasn't much, but you're welcome," Fritz says. "It sounds like you love them very much."

"I have too much love for just one person," Pierre says, knowing it sounds corny, but he feels the need to be earnest with this man. "What was Friedrich like when he was young? How young was he when you knew him?"

"He was 23 when we met," Fritz says. He turns around to line up the spines of the books on the bookcase, only to artfully mess them up again. "About the same gap as with him and Benjy. I confess I couldn't give him the kind of love he needed. He's done a lot for me. Also he's had a taste for 18-23 year-olds all this time, but not kept on with them like with you. Or Benjy, even more so. Color me impressed to see him with both at once."

"I think he and Benjy are gonna end up more of a thing," Pierre says.

"And you and Chev, a thing?"

"Maybe. I doubt I'll break up with Friedrich unless he does something awful, but when you're poly it's not as hard to redefine a relationship instead of ending it. But I want to - Friedrich invited me to live with him, and I felt flattered but not right. If Chev invites me ever I'll jump on it. That's just how I feel. Don't tell Friedrich. Or Chev, if you meet them."

Fritz turns around and considers Pierre like Pierre is an unusual plant. "Be careful with that one. They'll do what it takes to survive."

"To survive. You've never met them."

"I've met people like them."

"Not exactly like them."

"True enough."

***

5\. Chev

It's the middle of an already-eventful fundraiser at a bowling alley to help the family of one of the Vernon Psych staff members. Voltaire and Fritz start shouting at each other in French, moving towards the doors to continue outside. Chev glances back to make sure Pierre is safe and happy. Pierre is used to Chev slipping in and out of any given location, and doesn't mind as long as they check in, even if he doesn't know where Chev's checking in from.

They need Fritz at least somewhat comfortable and mellow. So they take a moment to listen to the content of the fight. Fritz doesn't want Voltaire to confront "that car accident survivor in there" about their shared past, and tells Voltaire to be grateful "the brief overlap" hadn't resulted in trouble. Voltaire says yes, this might be construed as kicking a hornet's nest, but he's past patiently waiting, he believes in smashing expectations...

"I just realized you're Voltaire! Oh my god!" Chev runs up to him and gasps in awe to be in the presence of the man himself. "Can I have your autograph? Is there a way to get tickets to Candide? I've looked everywhere online but it's either all sold out or at an absurdly inflated price."

Later, Chev goes to perch on the hood of their car, looking suitably thoughtful. Their actual errand - they're insufficiently trained to do 'jobs' for now, but Mr. 15 has them do easy errands to build experience - was to check on "Louis Bourbon" and deliver an envelope containing stuff Mr. 15 wants Mr. 16 to have. One of Mr. 16's personality changes after the head trauma was a severe fear of flying, which is making the prospect of getting back to France tricky. Maybe the envelope contained a cruise ship ticket.

It had been fun talking to him about lockpicking. He says he has a blog. Chev's gonna check it out. He also has a hopeless crush on an Austrian professional poker player. He swears he can just feel that Marie Antoinette is meant for him.

Their solo thoughtfulness draws Fritz towards them, as expected. Chev saw him hugging Martha Laurens earlier. Good to see that woman being appreciated. Pierre speaks well of him, too.

"I'm sure he's pleased with you," Fritz says, leaning against the car door.

"Most of the time. Sometimes he thinks I poke my nose into his business too much. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Does he let you get help?" Fritz vaguely gestures at his own head.

"Yeah. I know Eliza Schuyler, and I asked her to ask her sister to give me recs 'like she'd give to Friedrich'." Eliza and Martha had given Chev first aid when they were babbling and approaching shock, and Eliza had cleaned and bandaged the wound around Chev's wrist from fighting their restraints for so long. They don't like people seeing them so vulnerable, but anyone who had, and treated them like that - well, Chev doesn't trust anyone 100%, but it brought them up to 85% by default. Reinette and Pierre are at 92% and 96% respectively. Best friend and boyfriend. Highest current rankings.

"Is that all, or do you want something?"  
  
"I'd like some advice. Friedrich's taking Pierre to an appointment. I can go home whenever."

Fritz hums thoughtfully. "That'll take more than a few minutes, and I'm supposed to facilitate Voltaire's visit to Franklin this evening. I imagine you're busy between school and training."

"I quit all my extracurriculars except Fencing. I need the fencing for my summer job. Why, do you want to meet up for coffee later or something?"

"Might be a bit public. It's a long journey to now."

Chev turns and looks him in the eye. "It's also a wobbly journey to soon. We can do it another way. Is that a yes, though?"

Fritz nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn't want to embroil Prussia in a Seven Years War, now would we?
> 
> James Armistead Lafayette! Spy! Former slave! Served under Lafayette, added the name in gratitude for Lafayette's help in freeing him! In case you haven't read his T&T cameo or did a long time ago! Woohoo!
> 
> If you're reading this, especially if you've commented and/or will comment, I love you thiiiiiiiiiis much.


End file.
